The End of the Third Age
by Nebraskafan
Summary: They had believed a narrowly avoided foe to be dead. But fifty years later, when Aragorn is in rule of Gondor, the enemy resurfaces. This time, Legolas will be the one to pay the price, unless Aragorn risks something else: and that is his people. Kings are tested, loyalties are stretched, and impossible choices have to be made – choices that can bring the most valiant Men to ruin.
1. Chapter 1

**The End of the Third Age **

They had believed a narrowly avoided foe to be dead. But nearly fifty years later, when Aragorn is in rule of Gondor and Sauron is destroyed, a dark enemy from the past resurfaces. And this time, Legolas will be the one to pay the price, unless Aragorn risks something else that is just as precious to him. Kings are tested, loyalties are stretched, and impossible choices have to be made - choices that can bring even the most valiant Men to ruin. Not all evil was vanquished when the Dark Lord Sauron fell.

~.~.~

_Disclaimer: I do not own ANY of the characters or places that are associated with "The Lord of the Rings". They all belong to the wonderful Professor J.R.R. Tolkien. I do own several little O.C's, but they are mostly only servants and healers and friends, etc. Other than that, I take no credit whatsoever. Also, several ideas may have been inspired by other authors writings, and though I can't name them all, my thanks for the inspiration nonetheless.  
[1] & [2] : (Italics: Passages from "The Lord of the Rings - The Return of the King" by J.R.R Tolkien)_

_A/N's:_

_* This story is AU. Along the lines of what Tolkien talks about in "The Return of the King": The ending of the Third Age brought a lot of changes to the people of Middle-earth, such as partings and leavings and such. Gandalf, Celeborn, Galadriel, and Elrond sail on "the last ship to leave the Havens" (other than Legolas' ship, only sailing after Aragorn is gone). I stay that ship. Some dates may be off, but I hope it's nothing too unforgivable. I tried my hardest for it to be reasonable and make as much sense as it possibly could._

_* I base my Elrond, Elrohir, Elladan, and Aragorn relationships on the fact that I believe that they were more a family than anything else. I'm religious about the fact Tolkien gives us; that Aragorn left with the Dunedain Rangers as soon as his relationship with the Peredhil family was destroyed after he fell in love with Arwen. But before then, Tolkien is pretty clear about a young Aragorn being accepted in their family. After Arathon was slain, Lord Elrond took Aragorn and Gilrean into Imladris when Aragorn was a mere babe of two or three, and even Tolkien said that "Elrond took him in and loved him as his own son". That is exactly how I portray them. And, so, I automatically think that Elladan and Elrohir loved Estel as their little brother as he was growing up. This couldn't be described as anything other than family, right? Right._

_Let's dive right in, shall we?_

~.~.~

**Chapter** **One**

_"This is your realm, and the heart of the greater realm that shall be. The Third Age of the world is ended, and the new age is begun; and it is your task to order its beginning and to preserve what may be preserved. For though much has been saved, much must now pass away."  
- Door-warden of Minas Tirith_

~.~.~

Riding at last through the seventh gate of Minas Tirith and coming into the High Court, Legolas Thrandulion resembled all of the royalty that he was upon his white steed, Anaryn. The Prince of Greenwood dismounted gracefully and held his horse steady as he looked around him at the court, and his eyes first found the sapling of the White Tree of Minas Tirith in its first bloom. Beside it in the midst of the sweet sward of green grass rained the fountain. It had been seven months to the day that Legolas had resided in this magnificent city of Men, and it still awed him with its beauty.

"For the fashion of Minas Tirith was such that it was built on seven levels, each delved into the hill, and about each was set a wall, and in each wall was a gate. But the gates were not set in a line: the Great Gate in the City Wall was at the east point of the circuit, but the next faced half south, and the third half north, and so to and fro upwards, so that the paved way that climbed towards the Citadel turned first this way and then that across the face of the hill. And each time that it passed the line of the Great Gate it went through an arched tunnel, piercing a vast pier of rock whose huge out-thrust bulk divided in two all of the circles of the city save the first. For partly in the primeval shaping of the hill, partly by the mighty craft and labor of Men, there stood up from the rear of the wide court behind the Gate a towering bastion of stone, its edge sharp as a ship-keel facing east. Up it rose, even to the level of the top-most circle, and there was crowned by a battlement; so that those in the Citadel might, like mariners in a mountainous ship, look from its peak sheer down upon the Gate seven hundred feet below. The entrance to the Citadel also looked eastward, but was delved in the heart of the rock; thence a long lamp lit slope ran up to the seventh gate. Thus men reached at last the High Court, and the Place of the Fountain before the feet of the White Tower: tall and shapely, fifty fathoms from its base to the pinnacle." [1]

On May 1st of the previous year, the entire upper level of Minas Tirith had been filled with a frenzy of cheering and exuberant people. The Elves had sent their delegations respectfully to the city as well, of course, to attend the coronation of the King of Men. It was a day of celebration, and filled with a hope that made its way into the hearts of all who watched Aragorn – Elessar – take upon his head the crown of the kings. "It was shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of kings who came over the Sea; and seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel, the light of which went up like a flame." [2]

The Fellowship had dwelled in Minas Tirith for some time after the day of Elessar's coronation. Partially for recovery and tranquility from the end of the War of the Ring, and partially so that their Fellowship could remain in entire company, having been separated very early on their Quest. Legolas was especially glad for this accommodation; for it ensured that he was able to remain at Aragorn's side for the Man's first months as King. It would be false to say that Aragorn was not wary of sitting in the seat of the High Kings – though the Man had changed must on the Quest of the Ring, and was nonetheless prepared and determined to meet his birth-right head on – and the presence of Legolas, whom had been at his side for most of Aragorn's life, was a very welcome thing. The two comrades rested in the joy of knowing that the peace that they had fought for was settling its blanket over the lands of Middle-earth.

And, on the 21st day of June, Legolas could stand at Aragorn's side as they watched Lord Elrond of Rivendell and his daughter make their way into the High Court of Minas Tirith amidst a splendorous, beautiful array of Noldorian Elves. To lay eyes on Arwen Undomiel; daughter of Elrond, Star of the Elves; made the King of Gondor's heart soar. Aragorn had revered the Elleth since he had fallen in love with her as a young man, and Arwen had found her fate of heart woven with his from that day, and was devoted to him in return. The trials they had faced because of their love had not been few, but they felt those years of toil fall away as they beheld each other that day. Arwen's vibrancy shone even brighter as Aragorn joyfully took her into his arms and kissed her at the foot of the White Tower. The marriage of King Elessar and Lady Arwen was held the following morning, on Mid-Year's Day, and Legolas stood proudly next to Lord Elrond as the love of the Elfstone and the Evenstar was sealed.

Then, the events that followed were considered to be the winding down of the War of the Ring. Perhaps the most important of these doings do not in this tale concern the Ring Bearer; Frodo Baggins of the Shire; and his faithful company of dear Hobbit friends, or any magic Rings, for in this tale we shall follow the happenings of several others. A Mortal man, a Half-elven family, and an Elf-prince from Mirkwood.

Legolas the Wood Elf, son of King Thranduil of Greenwood, chose to remain steadfast at the side of Aragorn, as is said earlier. Legolas had known Aragorn since the time when the Man had been taken into Rivendell and under Elrond's wing at the age of two; delivered by Elrond's twin sons when the Dúnedain village was raided and pillaged by Orcs of Sauron. Aragorn's father Arathon – leader of the Dúnedain clan – had been slain while riding out to meet the enemy, yet Gilrean his mother and himself had been escorted by Elladan and Elrohir safely back to Imladris. Lord Elrond swore to Gilrean that he would keep her son alive, and raise him as his own, as well as did Elladan and Elrohir swear to protect him. So in Rivendell Aragorn was raised for a time, given by Elrond the name Estel, which in the elven tongue is Hope. He was quickly known to the Elves and cherished by many.

As a result of already being in close ties of friendship with both Lord Elrond and his sons, Legolas grew fond of the child as soon as they were introduced. Aragorn found the Wood Elf intriguing as well. Soon they became so close that they were nearly inseparable. As the boy grew into a man, their endless routines together of creating mischief and departing on adventure after adventure became so strong that their bond strengthened with it. Whether it be battles against ill fortune, or battles against the rising enemy, by the time Aragorn had reached the age of his manhood they had encountered every peril, or so it seemed. The laughter and tears that they shared wove them together with friendship, a rare bond of loyalty that few were lucky enough to find, slowly threaded with each act of trust or compassion that they showed. Secrets had been shared, burdens had been lifted, scars had been healed, and strength had been restored between them.

And now – returned to Gondor in this new time, many years later than their first meeting – Legolas could see his friend again. He had traveled for a time with Gimli, and returned to reunite with his father in the forests of Mirkwood – or Greenwood, as his home was named after Sauron had been destroyed.

But Legolas had been anxious to return to the new King, and here he stood. He was surprised to see such a large number of people in the courtyard, but he dismissed it as merely a subject of Aragorn's fresh reign. With a smile on his lips, Legolas handed off his reigns to a guard that hurried across the court to him, for he was anxious to take to the palace and announce himself to his friend. The Elf had just departed from his four kinsfolk in tread of the path around the fountain; nodding politely to the mingling peasants and townsfolk of Gondor; when a cry arose from the stairs. "Legolas, _mellon_ _nin_!"

"_Mae_ _govannen_, Aragorn!" Legolas called, his stride quickening as the King emerged from the Great Doors, hurrying down the steps with an expression that mimicked his joy. Distracted, Legolas was unprepared when suddenly one of the folk stepped into his path, and the Elf bumped lightly into the form that was clad in clothes of dark color and a hood that concealed his face.

Stumbling in surprise, Legolas opened his mouth to speak, but the other interrupted him. In a quiet voice; a voice that rose a dim awareness in the Elf's mind; six odd words were whispered into his ear. "Consider this an omen, Prince Legolas."

Legolas did not have time to re-direct his apology into a surprised question, for the mysterious stranger released his arm without another word and moved off, soon lost in the crowd. Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion and he looked over the heads of the people of Gondor, the happiness in his heart dimmed by the ill warning, as if a cloud had floated to block the sun.

The stranger had disappeared.

_An_ _omen_? The words were dark, and Legolas did not care for the chills that shot down his spine as he turned back to the palace. Aragorn was still descending the stairs – the stranger had spoken in the span of only several moments – but just as the Elf forced the smile back onto his face, walking towards the King once more, the foreboding took its place.

In the form of a scream.

"Lady Arwen!" The voice of a woman rang out across the courtyard from a window. Everyone on the sward of grass started as one, their eyes flying up to lock on a tower to the left of the King's House. Legolas froze in his step and Aragorn turned – and just as they all looked, Adala; the Queen's chief maid; stood to her feet behind the balustrade of the balcony rail, her cries continuing with urgency and blood staining the front of her gown. "Help! Help us, _please_! Lady Arwen!"

Legolas felt as if his heart had stopped cold inside of him. He watched as Aragorn's face whitened before the Man turned and ran up the stairs, his voice ringing out in a roar, "Guards, to my chambers!"

"Aragorn!" Legolas called, but the King ignored him, already hidden inside of the palace. The Elf turned desperately and looked around at the horrified crowd of people, fighting to clear his mind of the terror that muddled it. The folk of Gondor rushed around him, most of them fleeing the courtyard, all taking up the cry of, "The Queen has been shot! The Queen has been shot!" – but even then, Legolas saw him.

The stranger.

Standing on the front of the path to the next level of the city, the cloaked figure's face was still hidden by his hood, but Legolas knew that the man was looking at him. As he watched, a shadowy grin flickered across the stranger's face, and he nodded once before turning and disappearing down the hall of stone.

Legolas stared after him for the shortest moment, but the sense that seemed to have fled him struck the Elf and prompted him to turn and race after his friend up the palace steps. Following the mysterious wraith would have to wait. Now, there was something far more important at hand. An attack that should not have been.

_Like_ _an_ _omen_.

The view of the Great Hall did not register to Legolas as he followed the sound of clamoring footsteps through the halls of Minas Tirith's palace, his sensitive ears tuned in to the sound of Aragorn's frantic calls for more guards to follow him and others to scour the courtyard. The Elf caught up to the entourage just as they entered the chambers of the King and Queen.

Many guards were already there. Stopping in the doorway, Legolas watched in horror as the armored Men parted for their King, allowing them both to see the still form of Arwen Undomiel. The raw sound of grief that Aragorn made at the sight of the black arrow in the Elleth's stomach tore through Legolas' heart, and he stepped forward as the Man fell to his knees at Arwen's side.

"Aragorn," Legolas said softly, reaching out to touch the King's shoulder. "Let them take her to the healers. She needs help, now. Do not delay them."

The guards seemed encouraged by the Elf's words and one of them began to gently pull the King back from the fallen Elf-maiden. As soon as he felt himself being moved, Aragorn turned and lashed out at the arm, shouting, "Leave me! No!"

Startled, the guard fell back from the blow and Legolas quickly knelt behind his friend, grabbing both of Aragorn's wrists to still his violent movement. "Enough, Aragorn!" the Elf said sharply. "You must let them go."

"No," Aragorn repeated brokenly, yet even as he said it he slumped back into his friend's hold. "Please, save her," the King whispered. All of his Men heard him, and as soon as they saw that Legolas had a firm grip on the King they swiftly bore Arwen from the room.

As soon as they were alone, Legolas moved his hands to Aragorn's shoulders and turned the Man to face him. "Aragorn, you must listen to me," the Elf murmured. "I know that you are frightened, my friend; I am as well; but you must trust me when I tell you that you have to stay with us while we fight for Arwen's life. You must not give into the shock that I know is close to overwhelming you now. Do you hear me, Aragorn?" Slight fear crept into Legolas' voice when Aragorn made no sign of acknowledging him; the King's stare remained fixed on the floor underneath his knees. Tightening his grip on his friend's shoulders, Legolas ducked his head to try to meet Aragorn's eyes, saying softly, "Please, my friend, let me know that you understand. This is very important. Aragorn?"

It was quiet for a moment. The King slowly drew in a deep breath, and then rose his head, bringing tear-filled, yet clear eyes to meet the Elf-prince's own. "All right," Aragorn said softly, and though his voice was hoarse, he straightened his shoulders. "All right, my friend. I hear you."

~.~.~

A passerby would have perhaps thought their King to be waiting for an important party to arrive, but Legolas knew his friend far better than a passerby. Thus he knew that even as he sat quietly in a chair outside of the ward where Arwen was being seen to, Aragorn was in agony.

Ruhin; the healer that had taken charge over the Queen when she was brought in; had respectfully – yet _firmly_ – told the King that he should leave the room. They were to perform unpleasant tasks on Arwen if they ever expected her to wake from the removal of the arrow. Ruhin used his experienced past and the knowledge of how much his King loved his Queen to tell Aragorn that it would not be wise for him to watch, no matter the healing abilities that Elessar held in his hands. Ruhin knew that emotion would override duty. And the healers needed all of the room to carry out the careful, precise procedure that they could get.

Of course, Aragorn had not been willing to wait outside while his dying beloved was receiving the treatment that may – or may _not_ – save her life. But Ruhin had not enough time to argue with him, and so asked Legolas to keep the King from the room before they had both been shoved aside as if they were pesky children. Standing behind a crowd of turned backs, the Elf and Man watched in horror as the healers began their work, and through their quick arms and hands they caught glimpses of Arwen's ashen face, of her closed eyes and parted lips.

Only when Aragorn turned toward him with a lost expression did Legolas shake himself from his trance and wrap an arm around the Man's shoulders, pulling him from the room.

And thus began the long hours of waiting to see if the Evenstar would live.

For the people of Gondor who knew – which were many, for the horrible news spread like wildfire throughout the streets, and within two days the city was ringing with it – that meant quiet worry that their beautiful Queen; from another world, it seemed; would be no more. For others – those that loved Arwen – it meant long hours of prayer and wearying hours of holding onto hope.

And since the message of the Queen's attack would not reach Rivendell for some time, Legolas was the only Elf of King Elessar's childhood who could be at his side. Aragorn waited outside of the door, unallowed to enter for the remaining day and night; praying in times of gaining hope, and weeping in times of losing it. Faramir did his best to resume the royal duties of Gondor while searching the city for the assailant and it was undeniable that all lively commuting of Gondor slowed for awhile, as if the sorrow of Lady Arwen's condition held the land in a weary cloud.

It was the second morn now. Standing against the wall, Legolas turned his head and gazed at his friend sadly. The Elf had not managed to convince the Man to eat, nor to sleep. Aragorn sat silently outside of the door, or paced the hall, or sometimes spoke his fear and pain to the cold floor of stone. No word had come – except when a healer opened the door, twice for the day past, to say briskly _"The Queen is yet living; we are doing all that we can"_ – and still their commands had been the only sound from the healing room. With every second that ticked by the desperate hope that Arwen would pull through began to wane in Aragorn's mind.

But then, the door opened. Fully. "My lord."

Leaping to his feet when the healer stepped quietly into the hall, Aragorn strode forward eagerly. "How is she?" the King demanded, "Is she all right?"

"My lord..." The healer sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. "First, I feel that I must tell you the challenge that we have been faced with. I am terribly sorry that there hasn't been enough word; we have been very hard pressed to not stop our work. If we had she would have lost far too much blood. And my lord, her arrow wound is not her only peril."

Aragorn felt his heart plummet. Legolas appeared quietly at his side, sliding a hand onto his shoulder and giving it a tight squeeze, prompting the Man to shake himself from his daze of fear. "What does that mean?"

"It means that her wound is not only an exterior one." Ruhin sighed, and added, almost as if to himself, "It is a wonder that she is awake."

"She is awake?" Aragorn cast an anxious glance at the door, tensing as if he would spring towards it. "Has she said anything?"

"I should first tell you of her ailment before–"

"Then tell me, Ruhin," Aragorn interrupted impatiently, "Tell me clearly what is wrong with her."

"Clearly?" The healer glanced up, sadness filling his eyes.

"Yes."

"Very well, then." Ruhin surprised them both by leaning wearily against the wall, pressing a hand to his brow. His voice softened. "Lady Arwen is dying, my lord."

Nothing in his life could ever have prepared Aragorn son of Arathon to hear those words. His heart leapt into his throat to begin its slow task of choking him; he resisted the urge to grab his suddenly aching chest. "She is _dying_?" he breathed.

"I am afraid so, my lord," Ruhin murmured. "Not swiftly, but we are losing her."

Aragorn closed his eyes, dropping his head, and Legolas tightened his grip on his shoulder to steady him. "But she… she is strong, I don't… Please, tell me how."

"When the arrow struck her, it broke two of her ribs," Ruhin said, glad to have an explanation to focus on in the stifling presence of the hall. "The arrow missed all of her vital organs in a display of grace, as I can see. But one of her broken ribs has pierced her lung. She... she can't breathe, my lord."

Aragorn turned away. "No," he whispered, "by all of the Valar, _no_."

"My lord," Ruhin said, stepping forward and laying a hand on the King's shoulder. "All is not yet lost."

Aragorn turned agonized eyes on the healer. "'Not lost'? She is dying! Or is it that you not yet know if that is certain? Speak plainly!"

"Aragorn, peace," Legolas said softly. "She is strong, this you know; she will live."

"She has held on this long, and I think it means that she is waiting for us to reach out to her," Ruhin said. "I will not say for sure that she will live if we take action, but if we do not, she will not be able to hold on much longer."

Aragorn was silent. He turned away, towards Legolas, whose reassuring presence he needed in this moment of terror. He knew that the Elf was capable of being strong for him when he was not. As it had for most of his life, Aragorn's heart calmed when Legolas saw the question in his eyes and asked in a clear voice, "Have you not already done everything that you can?"

"Not without the word of my lord," Ruhin answered somewhat stiffly.

"You have it," Aragorn said, turning once more to the healer. "Tell me what Arwen needs."

Ruhin bowed his head in compliance. "We would cut into her skin under the wound; remove the rib with our hands and re-set it to its original place, before we re-sew the wound. We must do this before the blood loss becomes too dangerous." Ruhin paused, and only when Legolas nodded once did he continue. "It would rely on speed, my lord. If we cannot move fast enough, she will fade, perhaps more quickly than before. But if I succeed; with proper bandaging, plenty of rest, your herbs, and her strong will, she can recover. She can live."

It was quiet for a moment. Aragorn drew in a steadying breath and let the hope of the healer's words wash over him, for the sake of Arwen. "I wish to see her," he murmured. "And by the Valar, Ruhin, if you try to stop me this time I swear that I will strangle you with my bare hands." With that, Aragorn stepped past the surprised healer and opened the door, stepping into the quiet room. Legolas followed him, his heart tightening when Aragorn's steps faltered as soon as his eyes fell upon the bed where Arwen lay. She was as white as the sheets that covered her. The healers had clothed her in a light under-gown, and her chest rose and fell weakly beneath the silk. In one slim hand she clasped the Evenstar.

Even now, lying fatally wounded, Arwen Undomiel was yet the most beautiful sight in the world to the King of Gondor. With tears in his eyes Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed and took the Elleth's slim hand into his own. "Arwen?" he whispered. He gently touched her forehead, brushing her hair back. "Can you hear me, _melethron_?"

Arwen was silent, and still.

Turning slightly, Legolas fixed Ruhin with a questioning glance as the healer stepped up beside him. "She was awake before I came out to you," the Man said quietly. "She continued to ask for the King, but her strength has betrayed her."

"And that isn't dangerous?" Legolas murmured.

"We cannot wake her."

"Perhaps, then, the surgery should be performed now."

"No. She must not remain in this state while we perform such a dangerous task."

Legolas' heart dropped in horror. "You do not mean to imply that she will be _awake_?"

Ruhin's eyes were sad. "Yes, Lord Legolas. Our medicines will be considered for her pain, but she cannot be wandering in other realms of dreams else she might seek to run from the pain and never return to us. I will not claim to know everything about the strength of the Elves, but though they are mighty, they are not indestructable."

"I understand," Legolas murmured, though his brow was furrowed as he gazed at the King and Queen. "Whatever you do, Ruhin, do not doubt yourself."

"My humblest thanks, my lord," Ruhin said with a small smile.

Legolas, however, no longer was listening to the healer. His mind was elsewhere – on an odd tightness that had spread in his chest. His eyes began to darken, and when the Elf looked towards Ruhin, his alarm increased when he saw that the healer's face appeared to him as if through a sudden fog. "Ruhin," he said faintly, unable to draw in a full breath.

Ruhin turned. "My lord?"

"No," Legolas murmured, "No, no – I cannot breathe."

"My lord?" Ruhin repeated in alarm, reaching out to grab the Elf's arm. "Are you wounded?"

"No!" Legolas gasped when agony lanced through his chest. A cold sweat had broken out over his brow. He felt light-headed, and fevered, and chilled all at once. "I do not understand; my chest will not–" He placed a hand there. "My legs are numb, and my... my arm burns."

Ruhin tried to guide Legolas towards an empty bed. "You must sit and let me look–"

"The King," Legolas whispered roughly, grabbing the Man's arms to resist being moved. "Call for him."

Ruhin did not hesitate to comply. "My lord! _Elessar_!"

Aragorn turned in surprise at the urgency in Ruhin's voice. As soon as his eyes took in the sight of Legolas slumped almost lifelessly against the healer, the King stood from the bed and ran to their side. "Legolas! What–"

"He says that he cannot breathe, my lord," Ruhin said urgently.

Legolas reached out and with a strength that belied his state he grabbed Aragorn's shoulders, meeting his eyes. But he could not conjur his voice; his lack of breath allowed him only to utter, "I cannot..."

When Legolas' knees buckled, Aragorn took ahold of his hands and pulled the tall Elf close to steady him. "Legolas, _sidh, mellon nin_," he murmured. His mind worked furiously to remember any illness that might be the cause of the sudden symptoms – any wound that the Prince might have mentioned. "Legolas, you must breathe more slowly." He pressed a hand against Legolas' chest, and it was a mere moment before the Elf's jerky breaths calmed slightly. "Good, very good."

"There was a man in the courtyard," Legolas breathed, his body relaxing. The black spots dancing in his eyes had begun to expand. "He knew that Arwen was to be shot. He told... he stopped me..."

"Legolas, who?" Aragorn asked fearfully. "Who do you speak of?"

"I know him not," Legolas' reply was faint. Alarmed at the way the Elf sounded – as if he were fading – Aragorn gave the Elf a firm shake. "I am tired, Elessar," Legolas muttered. "Take me to a room."

"You are in the House of Healing, Legolas, do you not remember? You cannot sleep. Legolas, listen to me. You may not sleep." Aragorn turned Legolas' face towards him. When he saw that the Elf's eyes were closed, he slapped Legolas' cheek and hazy blue eyes opened again, meeting frightened grey. "Stay awake," the Man demanded.

Legolas sighed. "Please, let me rest," he murmured. "I am weary."

"No, my friend." Aragorn turned a glance on Ruhin, but the healer shook his head helplessly. "Speak to me, Wood Elf," the King said, the playful jest in his voice weakened by the fear that accompanied it. "Your mind is much stronger than this. You may even sing; but you cannot sleep. Tell me what you saw in the courtyard."

"_Goeheno_ _nin_," Legolas whispered. "The arrow was... an omen. I am sorry, Aragorn; the fault is mine. I am sorry..."

Sighing, Legolas finally turned to the darkness clawing at him and fell into the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness, his form falling limp in Aragorn's arms. The unprepared King nearly dropped him, a cry of horror tearing from his lips as he was pulled to his knees by the Elf's weight as well. "No! _Legolas_!"

~.~.~

"Elladan."

Elladan Peredhil turned at the sound of his name. His brother, Elrohir, had silently approached him where he stood at the balcony railing in an empty study of his home, musing. For several days there had been an odd darkness tingeing Elladan's thoughts, though the son of Elrond had no knowledge of why he had recently felt like something concerning him had gone terribly wrong.

For quite awhile he and his brother and Elrond had resided peacefully in Rivendell after returning there from Gondor after Aragorn was crowned King. Though the Elves of Middle-earth – therefore some of those in Rivendell – were still diminishing to pass into Valinor, it seemed that with the fall of Sauron there was a new lightness and joy that had settled over the Firstborn that remained in The Last Homely House. More feasting, more singing, more dancing.

Yet the forebodence had taken hold of Elladan's heart despite all of this. He was not as clear in his foresight as his father, but he knew when something had gone terribly wrong that should not have.

_He just did not know what it was._

Sighing, Elladan turned away from the serene view of the valley and smiled at his brother. "Yes, Elrohir?"

Elrohir stopped several paces away, his arms stiff at his sides. "A message has arrived," he said quietly. "From Gondor."

"How fares Estel?" Elladan asked, but then he paused. Narrowing his eyes, he studied his brother and started walking towards him slowly, asking, "Elrohir, what is wrong?"

Elrohir's ageless eyes filled with tears. "Arwen."

Stopping abruptly, Elladan tried to ignore when his heart skipped several beats. "What happened?"

"Elladan..." Elrohir's voice broke and he bowed his head, reaching out to place a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We are losing her. We ride as soon as Father is ready."

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_I'm not going to beg, but I would really love a review, either to tell me what was good or what was bad. All feedback is appreciated!_


	2. Chapter 2

~.~.~

**Chapter Two**

_"Nothing is evil in the beginning."_

_- Lord Elrond_

~.~.~

The sun had set.

And though they had not finished settling into their new place of 'residency', it was just as well, the immortal being mused. He preferred darkness. It was a protective cloak to him now; despite the folly of 'the light of the Elves'. The majority of his kin were blind. An immortal life had been taken under the pretense of light. And because that life had been the only true source of joy and beauty in his never-ending years, the Elf had decided that the one who had taken it from him would have those of his stolen as well.

It was far too easy. Even though the putrid Man was now a King with an entire host of deceived people at his command, he was still so vulnerable. His soldiers did create an obstacle, of course. Not to mention the seemingly brain-washed clan of Elves that were his allies – nearly the entire hold of Imladris, and the Prince from Greenwood – they, for some reason hopelessly beyond him, were fiercely loyal to the Man who now sat on Gondor's throne. Darcyn would never understand why Iluvitar had created the race of Men at all; they were destructive, and foolish, and greedy. But that was all very well for him, he supposed. Their stupidity – their leniency – was making this much less challenging.

It had taken only one of his Elves to dispose of the seven Men that were guarding the beacon. Seven arrows, and seven quiet, meaningless deaths. Well, more than seven, perhaps. His clan had killed several scouting and soldier parties to avoid being reported. His group of followers – ninety-eight Elves; some of Imladris, and some from the Wild; and nearly three-hundred Men from the reaches of Harad – had reached the Druadan Forest seven days ago. They had made fairly good time passing through it to meet him, yet Darcyn knew that they would have travelled much faster had it been only his kin. But the Men were a necessity to his plan, and the fools, he had been told, had hurried the best they could in fear of the Elves and in eagerness for the 'reward' they had been promised. And now here they were, once more reunited with him, their leader, raiding the first of the seven Beacon-hills of Gondor.

Amon Dîn was the closest to Minas Tirith; located near the eastern end of the Druadan Forest. The rocky landscaping of the hill made it an excellent place to conceal themselves, camping in an open space that would still be blocked from the view of Minas Tirith's sentries. And the Grey Wood being so near topped the perfection of its purpose. From those trees, he and his army would be able to emerge and approach 'Gondor's jewel', reaching it before too much preparation in defense could be made. Even if the war on the great city would only be a trifle sung about in later days, it ensured above all else that Darcyn could get his hands on Elessar.

Besides, the Elf mused, the White City's King was already preoccupied with tragedy.

He, of course, had recruited the man of Minas Tirith to shoot the Queen. Darcyn had been touched by a twinge of remorse at the necessity of having to command such a grievous hurt to one of his own people – and the gentle-hearted daughter of his once lord at that – but he had not room to consider such 'feelings'. After all, Arwen Undomiel had given up her gift of immortality for the Dúnedain Man, and thus was not counted too horrible a loss. She was merely one pawn in his plan.

It had been so simple to get close to her. At the gate of Minas Tirith, he had merely named himself an Elf of Imladris, saying that Lord Elrond had sent him with tidings for the King of Gondor. The naive guards had believed him. They knew that Elessar was a close ally of Rivendell; they had learned thus at the coronation of their King. And so Darcyn had been allowed through. The finding of a dim-witted Man with a greedy mind and enough skill for his proposition had not taken more than four hours, and he and the citizen of Gondor had made their way unchecked through the levels of the city. As they walked, he spoke little to the Man at his side, other than to tell him to shoot Arwen as soon as his eyes made contact with her.

And what a joy it had been to see the second pawn of his plan in the High Court! Legolas Thrandulion of Greenwood, freshly arrived to visit his 'dear friend'. Legolas, Darcyn knew, was one of the Elves most fond of Aragorn. Darcyn had learned this during the years he had lived in Imladris when the Man – then called Estel – resided there as well. Legolas visited often; and was always at Aragorn's side; Darcyn knew not how the Wood Elf could stand a Mortal so close, and count him as such a good friend; but he knew that Legolas was dangerously protective of the King of Gondor. And so Darcyn had waited for news of when Legolas would be returning to Gondor after all was well in Greenwood, and had set his plan times accordingly.

From there, everything simply fell into place. Darcyn had waited, hidden in hood and cloak, among the peasants that gathered as Legolas and his small delegation made their arrival. King Elessar arriving at the House Stairs had been a savory outcome, and Darcyn rejoiced when the oblivious Man called out joyfully to his friend. In Legolas' moment of distraction Darcyn made his move, walking forward and crossing his arm over his chest, palm outward. When he collided in the pretense of mere chance with Legolas, he touched the Wood Elf's arm and sunk the small pin coated with poison into Legolas' skin, his voice pulsing with triumph as he said, "Consider this an omen, Prince Legolas."

And then he had released him, and walked away into the crowd, which soon erupted into a frenzy for – concealed behind a statue lining the path up into the court – the Man he had recruited released his arrow upon the Queen when she came to the window at the King's call. Amidst the chaos that ensued, Darcyn led the Man under his command all the way to the second level of Minas Tirith, snapped the Adan's neck, hid him in a shadowed ravine, fled from the city, and rode to meet his clan.

And now he waited.

_'I hope that your so seemingly noble heart is prepared for what is to come upon you, Estel of Rivendell,'_ Darcyn thought to himself as he watched the Men under his command set up a camp at the base of the Beacon-tower. _'For as you mourn the loss of your beloved Queen, the next which you hold most dear is soon to fall.'_

And with all of the hate blackening his heart with each passing moment; even amidst his twisted thoughts; Darcyn could in no way anticipate the agony his doings would bestow upon the King of Gondor.

~.~.~

To say he was weary would be an understatement. Aragorn was – in every sense of the word – _drained_. He no longer felt much conviction to even stand.

No. No, there were two things that he knew he had to fight this despair for. His other half, and his closest friend. He did not care about one more. When it all came down to rock and stone, they were both the sole things that made it easier for him to breathe, and easier to step forward into each day full of hope. And now, he could lose them both at any moment.

Hang his kingdom. It was not as if all of his people were on the brink of death, he mused almost darkly. Why was Faramir so intent on jerking him out of his prayers – telling him over and over that "They needed to take action! Something must be done; the attacker could still be in the city, waiting to strike again!" Did his Steward think he did not _know_ that? 'The attacker' had done the worse to two whom he loved. They were both wandering in dream realms where he could not reach them.

_'__But wait'_, another part of his mind spoke in a quieter voice, _'Faramir is speaking rationally.'_ Aragorn found himself unable to argue with that. He was still the King of Gondor's people; he needed to tend to them as well and make sure that they were safe. He just could not find the strength to lift his head, or release his desperate grip on Legolas' hand. He was too weary.

As if sensing as much, Faramir softened his voice and stepped further through the stone in-way of the room. "My lord," he repeated. "I know that you fear for them. But, as you heard, your Queen is stable. The surgery did her well; even moments ago I could detect more pink in her cheeks, and her breathing was stronger."

Aragorn raised his head suddenly, turning in his chair to face him. "She is not any worse?"

The Steward's eyes were soft. "You were there only a quarter of an hour ago. She is the same; no worse."

Sighing, Aragorn once more bowed his head, staring at Legolas' limp hand. "He is not. His hands are colder, and he no longer sweats."

Despite the obvious sorrow in his King's words, Faramir tried to make hope of them. "Does that not only mean it has been awhile since his fever broke?"

"No," Aragorn said. "It means that his body is tiring of the fight. He is beginning to let go."

"I – I am sorry, my lord," Faramir murmured. "I should not have disturbed you."

"Please, Faramir, apologize not," Aragorn said softly. "I need to know how my people fare, and aid you in catching the criminal."

"I suffice with the Tower guards that are combing the city," Faramir said. "There is naught you need personally to do. We will find him." Lowering his eyes, the Steward added quietly to himself, "or the _other_ him."

"What do you mean, 'the other'?" Aragorn asked, turning towards the Steward.

"Early this morn we found the body of a Man hidden in a cravine. His neck was broken. By the hands of a person, it seemed. One of the Tower guards recognized him to be a secretive merchant that had settled in the city not long before the War. He was a bitter Man; avoided by most. He was also said to have exceptional – and uncanny – accuracy with a bow."

There was a cold light in Aragorn's eyes. "He shot Arwen."

To the confusion of the King, Faramir's voice was troubled as he said, "I believe that he did. The arrow that struck her and those found in his house are the same. But I am not entirely sure if he was the only one involved."

"Why do you believe that?"

"Well, several reasons, my lord," Faramir said. "For the first, we could find nothing that could possibly be ailing Legolas in this merchant's home."

"I never said that it is poison," Aragorn said.

"I know, my lord," Faramir said. "But no man can fell an Elf with his mere mind. There was nothing there. And from what I gather from the few who knew well of the merchant, he had not the wits to commit such a bold crime against the royal house. What could he gain from this?"

"What could _anyone_ gain from this?" Aragorn asked quietly. "Neither Arwen or Legolas have had time enough in this city to anger any of its people. There is something else that happened; something that motivated this man."

"I believe that it is more sinister than you think, my lord, if I may," Faramir said, his concern evident in his voice. "And I believe that by hurting them, he is trying to reach you."

"I'll not have you turn this possibility into an urgent rush to smother me with protection," Aragorn immediately said. "I want all of the attention of you and the men to stay on finding who has done this."

"I know, my lord," Faramir murmured, bowing his head. "We will not stop until we find him."

"Hail, King Elessar," said a new voice suddenly from the door, and Aragorn turned quickly to see that there stood Elrohir, son of Elrond.

"Elrohir!" the King exclaimed as stood to his feet in delight.

Elrohir walked forwards to meet him. "Ai, Estel, _manen nalyë_?" the Elf asked softly as he embraced the King.

"As expected," Aragorn murmured. "But I am much better now than before. I'm glad you're here."

Elladan entered the room in a more pronounced manner than his twin brother. He walked to Aragorn's side and put a hand on the Man's shoulder, though he seemed reluctant to look upon Legolas' pale form. "All will be well, Estel," the Peredhil Elf said softly. "Elrond is with us; he is yet with Arwen. He told us to come and bring word of Legolas' condition and to tell you that we are here."

"Does Arwen still sleep?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes, she sleeps," Elrohir said from where he was leaning against the opposite side of the bed, his hand on Legolas' forehead. "But you should not fear as much as I am sure you have been, Estel. Your healers have done her well, and Elrond is pleased. Death has a hold on her no longer."

Although Aragorn knew that until Arwen was awake and smiling in his arms his heart would never truly be at rest, he allowed the Elf's words to be a momentary balm. "Does Elrond not plan to come to Legolas himself?"

Elladan turned dark eyes on him. "He cannot bring himself to leave Arwen. Surely you understand this."

"I do," Aragorn said quietly. "I want to hold her 'til she wakes, but Legolas... he needs me as well." His voice softened as he sat in his chair. "Perhaps more."

After exchanging a glance with Elrohir as soon as his brother had finished his swift examination of Legolas, Elladan nodded and moved around to stand behind Aragorn and place a firm hand on the Man's shoulder. "Estel, I know not what ideas your healers have concerning our friend. But we have come able to bring you answers. Legolas has been poisoned."

Aragorn stiffened underneath his grasp. "Poisoned?"

"Yes," Elrohir said. "It is poison."

"I–" Aragorn sighed, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his hand. "I had thought, but... how do you know?"

"His arm is the first sign," Elrohir said. "There is an odd inflammation, and a barely perceptible pin mark. The coldness of his skin is another, and his breath is very hot. And have you not noticed his stomach?"

Aragorn raised his head, and his eyes were full of fear. "No. I have not looked there since the day he fell; I saw no reason to. What is it?"

"I really wish that I did not have to be the one to bring this to your attention," Elrohir murmured.

"I care not," Aragorn said. He stood and walked to the bed, reaching out to pull back Legolas' sleep tunic. "I need to see; it might help us to identify what poison–" The nervous string of words flowing from the King's lips came to an abrupt halt. Aragorn's heart went cold and he drew his hand back as if he had been burned, his arm falling to his side.

Tendrils of black ink snaked their vicious way up from Legolas' waist, tainting the whole of his stomach, all the way to his breast bone. The trails of black were not merely a rash of the skin; Aragorn could see that the shadow was in Legolas' body, and though the Man could not feel it himself he knew that the coldness of it was what kept Legolas in the realm of unconsciousness.

"Valar," Aragorn whispered in horror. "What is that?"

"It is an effect of the poison," Elrohir said quietly. "I have seen it before."

"Where? I have not," Aragorn murmured, sitting weakly in his chair again. "It looks like a work of _Mordor_."

"It is not so," Elladan said. "It is called Morëha. It was created by Elves of the early years of Middle-earth; Elves who strayed from their inner light and purpose and meddled in dark magic and evil things. Men call it the 'Black Rage'. It seemed that after Elrond founded Imladris, most of all the races ceased to use it."

"Is it fatal?" Aragorn asked. Both of the sons of Elrond looked away from the Man's eyes, and Elrohir turned to pull Legolas' tunic back down over the Wood Elf's stomach.

"We have not had much experience with this poison," Elladan said when the silence had grown unbearably tense between them. "Elrond has had some, but even he has not seen it in abundance. Those who were brought to him with Morëha I can count on one hand, and I refuse to believe that Legolas will suffer the same fate as they."

"Then they were lost," Aragorn said suddenly. He stood, and in his eyes was anger, but terror also. "Do not dance around my questions; _answer_ them! There was not a single victim who overcame this poison?"

Elrohir looked over and met Elladan's eyes. Neither of them were at first willing to respond. They knew the horrors that were to come, and their hearts told them that it was the only fate that Morëha was capable of bringing to its victims. Legolas was strong, but even some of the strongest Elves they had seen defeated by the Black Rage.

"There was not, Estel," Elrohir finally murmured. "After twenty-one days, we lost them all."

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_Second chapter! If the delay in updating this seemed terribly long to anyone, I apologize for it! This chapter was not a very fun one to write. As you'll see, the majority of it is just a whole lot of explaining, and I'm guilty of not being very good at explaining things, so it probably won't be the funnest thing to read. The length is not terribly long, either. But I hope that you will be able to bear with me for this short time of getting the plot more firmly set in place. :-)_

_Thank you to EVERYONE who reviewed! I really really really appreciated your feedback; you've no idea how much. :-) Thank you also to those of you who favorited me and/or my story and put me and/or my story on alert, and to those who are taking the time to read_


	3. Chapter 3

~.~.~

**Chapter Three**

_"It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not."_

_- Gandalf the White_

~.~.~

Darycn's eyes blazed with the light of the rising sun. As soon as the first ray crept forward through the canopy of trees and touched his boot, the Elf glanced at it with distaste before stepping back into the shadows. His distaste, however, soon gave way to the satisfaction that had been thrumming throughout his being since that day in Minas Tirith's court.

He turned on his heel to survey his followers. The Elves were becoming restless, just as he was; staying hidden at the Beacon-tower had not settled well with them ever, and they all felt the urge to take some course of action. The Men, however, were doing what they had been doing for the past several days – lounging about the fire rings they had constructed and smoking those horrid pipes. Darcyn had to smother the annoyance he felt for the worthless race, reminding himself that now, they did hold _some_ worth. They would help, eventually.

_Eventually_.

Darcyn searched the crowd until his eyes found the one he sought. Malivan; the Elf whom he trusted most out of those that had left Imladris when he had. Perhaps they had such a friendship because they had suffered similar injustices under Elrond's hand. Calling out to the slender, dark-haired Elf, Darcyn beckoned him over. "Malivan! Come, I must speak with you."

Malivan met his eyes at his call, giving a slight nod. Excusing himself from the Elves he had been quietly speaking to, he stepped around several sitting Men and made his way nimbly to Darcyn's side. The other Elf grasped his arm and pulled him even farther from their nearest listeners.

"I am going to Minas Tirith," were Darcyn's prompt words as soon as they had stopped walking.

Malivan's eyes flashed with surprise, but he merely nodded again. "And you wish me to stay?"

"I enjoy that you never try to talk me out of things when I tell you my decisions, Malivan," Darcyn said with a small smile. "_Hannon le_. Yes, I wish you to stay. These idiotic Men will need more than a few of us to lead them when the time comes."

"Why are you going to Minas Tirith now?"

"I have business with their King." Darcyn's eyes held a cold light as he turned and gazed through the trees at the vast expanse of the beginnings of Pelennor Fields. "I can wait no longer."

"I thought we were to move out tomorrow. Our plan seemed well. We are ready; the Men are ready. As ready as we can expect them to be. Are you sure that this change in plans is for the best?"

There was slight unease in Malivan's voice, and Darcyn's smile grew as he shot his friend a glance; one full of warped, amused anticipation. "Yes, my friend, our plan has been changed. For the best."

~.~.~

Elrond sensed a presence before he saw him. His robes made hardly a sound on the stone floor as he halted outside of the entrance of the King's first room. It was dark; the only light the white glow that was the moon. Hesitating for a moment, Elrond pushed the door open several inches more and peered inside, his keen gaze seeking out the Man, and after a short search he caught sight of him on the balcony.

Feeling his heart tighten at the weary slump of Aragorn's shoulders, Elrond stepped into the room and made his way over to him. He spoke softly before he'd reached the King. "It is a quiet night."

Aragorn's voice didn't betray an ounce of surprise. "It is all a lie."

"I know that you suffer, Aragorn," Elrond said softly, gaining the Man's side at the balcony. "But there is still hope. The end is far from here."

"I know not what hope you speak of," Aragorn murmured. Elrond turned to watch the King's face, his worried eyes studying every hidden sign Aragorn's expression held. "Legolas is strong, yet..." Dropping his eyes when his voice trailed off, Aragorn drew in a deep breath. "Yet he is not indestructible."

"He is not," Elrond said. "But he has many who will not give up on him yet. He needs you to be one of them."

Aragorn shook his head at the words. "I will be there with him for every step that he needs me. But he is gone; it is not him, it is his body. How can I be strong? How can I sit at his bedside each day and watch him as he is; cold, silent; and not despair? How can I not let the end enter my sight... when I know that once it is upon us, one of the Firstborn will be lost?"

Elrond reached out and grabbed Aragorn's shoulders, turning him so that they fully faced each other. "You do _not_ know that," he said fiercely. "You are not the one to decide what the outcome will be simply because of the past. Yes, some have perished because of Morëha, but that does not mean that all will. Do not turn your back on the hope that Legolas needs from you now. He is not here, thus he cannot pray as you can. Do not deny him that."

"I will not," Aragorn said, a flame igniting in his eyes as they rose and met those of the Elf-lord. "I will not bow to this; not when I must hold him up as well."

Elrond nodded and squeezed Aragorn's shoulders. "This I know, and so does he. It seems though, Estel, that _you_ do not."

Aragorn's eyes filled once more with sorrow before he closed them. "Sometimes I feel so," he murmured. "All I know to associate with this poison are the Elves that were lost to it, and that we know of no cure. If death from the Black Rage is unavoidable, he has only days left. How do I face that?"

"With your head held high and your heart full of defiance," Elrond answered. "You have always been a stubborn child. From the moment I first saw you in your mother's arms, I knew that you were strong. You are not one to turn from a fight when it is far from over."

Meeting Elrond's eyes, Aragorn drew strength from the wisdom and calmness in them. "_Hannon le_," the Man said softly.

Smiling, Lord Elrond nodded, before his gaze turned patronizing. "You must sleep sometime, Aragorn. Your brothers are with Legolas now; all three of them – one way or another – are asleep. Why not go lay with Arwen? I am sure that she needs you."

Nodding, Aragorn turned and stepped into the darkness of the room to make his way to the door. Before he reached it, however, he suddenly stopped and, returning to Elrond, embraced the tall Elf-lord. "Sleep well," he murmured. "I will tell you if she wakes."

Surprised, Lord Elrond squeezed him lightly before pushing him back. "_Hannon le_. I will see you at dawn."

Aragorn stepped quietly from the room.

~.~.~

If Legolas was ever to be asked to describe the way that his body felt when he woke three hours later, he would not have been able to relay the details. He'd been the victim of many injustices to his health over the long years of his life. He knew what most injuries felt like as soon as he awoke to them; be it an arrow wound to the shoulder, a knife wound to the side, a broken bone. But what he felt when his mind came sluggishly back to awareness was new to even him.

At first, it was an odd sensation throughout his veins, very much like his blood was tingling. His right arm was warm. No, not warm. It was hot – more so than the rest of him, all the way to the tips of his fingers. As for his fingers, he could not move them. Nor could he move that arm, or his legs. There was an unpleasant throbbing in the middle of his forehead. Subconsciously, Legolas was surprised when he was able to lift his left arm to reach for it, but that was when the agony exploded.

It lanced across his chest from his shoulder, and from there down through his stomach, where it coiled like a burning snake. His throat was dry, but that did not stop Legolas from releasing a cry at the sudden onslaught of fire as he tried to raise himself up. His legs refused to comply. Gasping, confused at the unwillingness of his body, and frightened by the pain flashing and biting its harsh trails inside of him, the Elf reached out desperately with his left hand. For what, he did not know.

But something came. A hand, strong and cool, curled around his, holding it gently. Another moved the pillows behind his back and then carefully pressed him back into them. When he opened his mouth to tell his care-taker that his stomach was on fire, Legolas' tongue didn't move and he gasped again in frustration, yanking his only mobile hand away.

The person seemed to misunderstand. Fingers stroked his hot brow, and Legolas could finally hear the voice murmuring to him. "Hush, Legolas, it is all right. You are in your room in Minas Tirith; all is well. Relax. Breathe deeply."

It took a moment for Legolas to recognize the voice of Elladan. Uncaring of why his friend was there amidst his fear, the Elf shook his head. He then realized that he could not open his eyes. "Legolas," Elladan said again, "can you tell me what causes the most pain?"

Legolas' words were raspy and broken, "My stomach – fire. Burning."

He heard Elladan draw in a sharp breath before another voice; the voice of Elrohir, Legolas realized; said quietly, "Check it, Elladan."

Feeling a hand lift his nightshirt, Legolas ceased trying to open his eyes and let his body fall back against the pillows. The Elf vaguely thought he heard both of Elrond's sons gasp at the same moment. "Valar, we must get Father!" Elrohir exclaimed. "It was not like this moments ago."

"Go; fetch him," Elladan said quickly. There was a rustle of movement, and then the Peredhil spoke to him softly once more. "Elrond will be here soon, Legolas. You only need let–" Elladan stopped speaking when Legolas suddenly convulsed into a sitting position once more. To his caretaker's horror, all the Elf-prince could do was let his chin drop as he coughed up a hot stream of blood. Elladan released a startled cry and pulled his hands back. Sputtering as the thick liquid poured from his mouth, Legolas fisted his hands in the blanket, and for seven seconds the blood came. When it ceased it left the Elf gasping, terrified of the unnatural onslaught.

He started when a hand suddenly grasped his chin, raising it tenderly. "Legolas?" The deep voice of Elrond washed like a balm through the Elf's ears. He clung to it as he subconsciously felt the blanket being pulled away from his legs, and almost immediately replaced with another. "I know that you are scared, _mellon nin_, but you must slow your breathing." Fingers gently guided a cloth across his chin. "The blood is gone; breathe as you normally would. I will hold you. Let your limbs loosen."

"My stomach," Legolas gasped, "My stomach is on fire, Elrond!"

"I know, young one," Elrond said sadly. "I can do nothing for that right now, forgive me. Concentrate on your chest and my voice. Breathe."

Gritting his teeth, Legolas forced his mind to let Elrond's words seep in and struggled to comply. He sat still, breathing in the familiar scent of athelas that clung to Elrond's robes. He did not dare open his eyes, afraid that any type of light may hurt his head further. After several moments he was motionless.

"Good, very good," Elrond murmured. "Has any of the pain left you?"

"Yes," Legolas whispered. "What is wrong with me?"

"We need not speak of that yet," Elrond said quietly. "Perhaps when you next wake you will be strong enough to speak properly. Now you must rest."

"No, Lord Elrond, you must tell me," Legolas muttered. "I have never felt this before. If there is nothing even you-"

"Silence." Elrond's command was soft, but firm. "Not now, Legolas. You are weary enough."

Elrond had not answered his question. But, even then, Legolas knew that something was wrong with him.

Something terrible.

Legolas could not help but wince as Elrond used his gentle grip to lay him back across the bed. Sinking into the pillows, the Elf swallowed the remaining taste of blood and, cradling his arm to his side, soon lost himself in the realm of fitful dreams. The last thought he had was the tickling sensation of danger, and Arwen's name whispered at the edge of his mind before his eyes closed wearily.

And at the same moment, ten doors down the hall, the King of Gondor's eyes fluttered open.

~.~.~

"Arwen." Aragorn's voice was rough with sleep as he shifted, stretching his long legs. As his mind slowly entered the waking world, he thought to himself how amazed he was that even now, this far into he and his beloved's life together, her name was always the first thing on his lips when he woke.

Arwen lay beside him, propped up by several pillows, her arm resting across her bosom just above where a bandage was hidden under her gown. Eyes sparkling, she reached out her free hand and gently touched Aragorn's lips. "Good morning, _meleth_."

Aragorn smiled and caught her hand. "Is it?" The King's response held more sorrow than he had intended. Smiling sadly, Arwen dared to shift her hips and face him more fully, the slightest wince shaking her shoulders. Aragorn sat up when he saw it. "Arwen! Do not move like that; you need not."

"I am fine, Estel!" Arwen waved away his concern, her fingers pressing carefully over her bandage to ease the dull ache her healing wound still gave. "It is very little pain at all anymore. Soon I am determined to leave this bed and walk under the sun."

Chuckling, Aragorn met her eyes with a look of loving exasperation. "You are too stubborn. Even you are capable of being stopped for a while! Let your body take in all the rest that it needs."

"It seems to be that my body is betraying me," Arwen said, the smallest beginnings of a pout touching her lips. "I feel ready to burst with the wish to be free of these stone walls. Your city is beautiful, Estel, but I long for the grass and fresh air."

"I know that you do." Smiling, Aragorn carefully moved closer to her, raising one hand to touch her face. "Your free spirit will be the death of you some day."

"Do not even jest of it," Arwen said, smiling and grasping his calloused hand to bring it to her lips. Yet suddenly the mirth left her ageless eyes. "How is Legolas?"

Aragorn's eyes darkened. "He has not woken yet," was his quiet reply. Arwen's fingers tenderly stroked his palm as she watched the Man in silence, her own heart aching for their friend. "He simply lays there. His skin is so cold; if not for his chest rising when he breathes, one might think him already..."

"Estel," Arwen interrupted, squeezing his hand to get him to once more look at her. "He is not gone, meleth, not yet. Legolas is still there; still on that bed. The strength in him refuses to let this poison take his life. I may have even less experience with such an evil thing as Morëha than my brothers, but I know one thing for certain, and that is that none of the wise Elves it claimed were as strong as our Elf-prince. You know this."

"But I don't, Arwen," Aragorn said quietly. "I don't. He does not move! His breathing slows, his skin pales further – he is dying. _Dying_, Arwen, as you were – before they... but every day I am there; I am right at his side; and I can do _nothing_!"

Arwen's eyes were full of sorrow. Reaching forward, the Queen ignored the twinge of pain in her stomach and pulled Aragorn's head to her chest, holding him silently. Their moment of peace, however, was only just that – a moment. Both of them looked up in surprise when there came a sudden banging on their door, and Aragorn sighed before releasing Arwen and straightening. "Enter."

Faramir did not hesitate in obeying his King's command, and the normal apology that would have been etched onto his face at interrupting the royal couple was not there. It was masked by urgency. Behind the Steward, Joln; Aragorn's chief of the Guard; made as if to follow, but he was pushed lightly aside by Elrond, who stepped in beside Faramir.

Aragorn stood as soon as he saw the Elf-lord. The presence of Elrond made his heart instantly worry for his ailing friend, and he demanded, "What; what is wrong? Legolas?"

Elrond shook his head. "No, he is fine. But you must come quickly."

The relieved sigh that Aragorn released at the Elf-lord's words stilled at the unusual panic in Elrond's voice. "What happened?"

"My lord, you must come," Faramir said, his eyes wide with horror. "A soldier has been dragged to the gates by a horse; tied to the saddle. He is dead, my King. There was a... a note. It was pinned to his chest by a blade."

Shocked, Aragorn stared at his Steward for a moment before looking back to Elrond. The Elf-lord's eyes were dark. "It is addressed to _you_, Aragorn."

The King of Gondor's mind was reeling. He swallowed, speaking numbly the first words that he deemed most important, "Who is the soldier?"

"One of my men, my King," Joln answered softly, his face haggard. "His name was Cordil."

"Aragorn," Elrond said before the King could say anything in response. "You must come. We did not want to carry the letter through the palace; Elladan and Elrohir are with it in the throne room."

Aragorn nodded slightly, before turning back to Arwen. The Queen's face was full of horror, and she reached up to clasp the King's face in her hands when he leaned towards her over the bed. "You will tell me what the letter says?" she whispered.

"Yes, Arwen, I will," Aragorn said softly. Placing a kiss on her forehead, the Man squeezed her hands before turning back to the waiting Steward, guard, and Elf-lord. All four of them walked in sync to the door and passed through it.

The trip was made in silence, and as soon as they emerged from a passageway leading into the throne room, Aragorn quickened his pace towards where Elladan was bent over a table along the opposite wall, hands clasping the edge of it, his shoulders tense. Elrohir stood beside him, arms folded across his chest. He straightened when he saw Aragorn approaching them, murmuring his brother's name to alert him as well.

Both of the Peredhil Princes' faces were tight with distress, and Aragorn met each of their eyes once he reached them. "You have read it?"

"Yes," Elladan said. He reached out and grabbed Aragorn's shoulder when the Man tried to move past him to the table. "Estel, it–"

"Silence." Elrond's voice rang through the throne room, silencing his son immediately. Faramir glanced at the Elf-lord standing beside him, confused at the dark authority in his tone. "Let Aragorn read it himself."

Staring at Elrond for a moment, Aragorn said quietly, "You know who it is from."

Elrond did not answer. He merely nodded over the Man's shoulder, his face grave.

Aragorn turned away and, pushing lightly past Elladan, leaned over the table, planting his hands on either side of the paper lying atop it. He struggled to ignore the crimson stain of blood ringing the tear at the top of the page as he began to read. As soon as his eyes passed over the first line of perfect elven script, the King wished that he had never begun.

_Hello, 'old friend'._

_I really do hope that you remember me. If not, I'll be very disappointed. Who am I, do you ask? Well, Estel of Rivendell, I am the foe that you have hidden from for the past fifty years. Oh, you haven't hidden from any enemy, you say? You have always been arrogant. And I do believe that you have, whether you know it or not. If you would like proof, I shall give it to you._

_You do not like sleeping in certain places. Two, to be exact. One is in the dark. And the other is in a bed. In your 'home'; or at least what you call your home. Imladris. Ah, yes, if I was there, I would be very pleased to see the realization that just crossed your face, followed by the horror, and the fear, and now, the anger. And let me tell you why you are angry. Because you are fighting a losing battle, and now you know that I am your opponent._

_Yes, I am the one who has poisoned your friend. Legolas, Crown Prince of Greenwood. Tell me, how is he doing? I assume that he is not dead yet. Victims of Morëha survive on average for twenty days. That would mean that our friend still has eight days, give or take. But I am almost positive that you thought his death would come much sooner._

_Horrifying, isn't it? The effects of the poison? The black marks must have terrified you; perhaps stumped you as well. At least at first. No doubt Lord Elrond is there and was able to explain it to you. How long after Arwen was shot did he arrive?_

_Oh, yes, and Arwen, of course! I almost forgot to mention her. I will not say much of this matter. I would say that I am sorry for your loss, but I am not. I hope that you are suffering the agony that you so deserve. Now you will know how I have felt for the past fifty years._

_I have the cure for Morëha. You may believe me, or you may not. But I have it. And if you do not get it, your precious friend shall die in no more than ten days._

_This is what I will leave you with. What happens from here is unknown. At least to you. To me, however..._

_Be on your toes, King of Gondor._

_I have only just begun._

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_Thank you so much for your reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

~.~.~

**Chapter Four**

_"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it. White shores, and beyond, a far green country. Under a swift sunrise."_

_- Gandalf the White_

~.~.~

The letter ended there.

Aragorn almost felt nothing. The terror; the rage that boiled inside of him was so great that it nearly numbed his heart with its fury. He was silent as he slid one hand across the letter, and then crumpled it into a tight ball. His shoulders tensed before he suddenly turned, hurling the paper across the throne room, where it landed with barely a noise. Elrohir flinched nonetheless, bowing his head. Elrond stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sadly watching as Aragorn turned and again leaned heavily against the table. Faramir shifted uneasily to his other foot, unsure of what to say to his King. Joln fared little different.

And there were many things that they could have said. Hollow condolences, reassurances, advice. But when Elladan stepped forwards and rested a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, what he said was quite different than what any of them had had in mind. "Come. I need to speak to you about something."

Aragorn turned his head and met Elladan's eyes. "I wish to–"

"Elrohir will go to Legolas," Elladan interrupted, reading the King's mind. "You must know what I have to say."

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn closed his eyes and used one trembling hand to rub his temple. "I will kill him," he said quietly. "I swear to Iluvitar that I will kill him."

Elladan's eyes were sad as he grabbed Aragorn's shoulder and turned him away from the small group. When the Peredhil Prince glanced back at his father, Elrond read the silent question in his son's gaze and nodded, saying quietly, "You may go."

Shooting an incredulous glance at Elrond, Faramir took a step forwards and raised a hand after the retreating form of the Elf and his King, calling, "My lord–!"

"Faramir," Elrond said, stepping in front of the Steward and meeting his eyes. "Let him go."

He knew it was brash, but the first stirrings of anger burned inside Faramir's heart. "He has duties here! We have a dead soldier. His family must be notified; his body must be taken care of; and we must speak of the letter that came so crudely with him! This is not an event to be taken lightly!"

"No one is taking it lightly," Elrond said, the calm tone of his voice rivaled by the fire in his eyes. "Trust me when I tell you this, Lord Faramir: this will _not_ be taken lightly."

"You know who sent this letter, do you not?" Faramir asked. "I did not have chance to read it. But I know from my king's actions that it is a threat, and that you know from whom it came. Is the White City in danger?"

One glance at the fearful face of Joln told Elrond that he must choose his words carefully. There was no need to raise panic where there was none. _Yet_. "At present, no, it is not. But Elessar has other things that he must attend to. As his Steward, he entrusts you with handling the young soldier as of now. He will come to you with what he wishes to do next as soon as he is ready."

Sighing, Faramir nodded. Elrond returned it briefly before excusing himself, his robes gliding silently over the floor as he turned away from them and returned the way they had come. To where, the Steward did not know. As soon as the Elf-lord was out of sight, Faramir turned to Joln, who met his eyes when he rested a hand on the chief of the Guard's shoulder. "Where was Cordil stationed, Master Joln?"

Joln opened his mouth to reply, but a shout outside of the Citadel interrupted him. As Faramir turned away from the soldier and strode to see to the call – pushing aside the frustration he felt at not having the slightest clue as to what pandemonium the letter had stirred up – he would never have imagined what awaited him outside on the Citadel's front steps.

~.~.~

Darcyn had told Malivan to send the body of the Gondorian soldier bearing his note out over the field an hour after he himself had left. That way, when he reached Minas Tirith's gate, the Keepers there would not have been able to receive any sort of warning from their King; to alert him if any Elf asked for entrance to the city.

The story Darcyn had tucked under his sleeve to receive entrance was plausible enough. "I am travelling as a messenger from Lord Glorfindel to Lord Elrond," were the words he spoke to the faces of the gate-keepers. Reaching into one of the pockets on the inside of his cloak, Darcyn had drawn out a sheet of parchment, having to restrain a smile. "It has not gone as smooth as it should have in Rivendell with both our lord and princes gone. I have need to speak with them."

And they let him enter once more. Perhaps Darcyn had the King of Gondor to thank. Aragorn had worked so hard to build a sense of peace between the Men of the city and the Elves, so much so that trust was beginning to form. Darcyn despised even the notion of 'his people' and an entire city of the Mortal race becoming friends, allies, but he could not deny that it had helped him in his plan, on more than one occasion. He would not have been able to breech Minas Tirith if it were not for it. Nor would he be this close to the worthless waste of Mortal life he sought if it were not for it.

Darcyn had waited in the lodgings on the first level of the city. The Old Guesthouse it was called, and Darcyn had chosen it because he had a clear view of the main road that connected all of the gates of the city. Standing on the porch, he would know when the horse bearing the dead soldier arrived, and therefore know how much longer he need wait before he could make his own trek to the Citadel.

He had not had to wait long. Shouts and clamors of shock and fear accompanied the gruesome arrival, and the guards of the Great Gate had immediately gone to work, removing their dead comrade from the horse's back and rushing him away down the street. Darcyn watched them pass by in amusement, before leaning leisurely against a pillar and continuing his scrutiny of the people of Gondor. They were like little ants, going to and fro among the streets, and after the procession of guards had left it was only several moments before they went back to their useless doings. In his mind Darcyn contemplated their actions with no small amount of disgust. They acted as if the death of a soldier was not an extraordinary happening. He had observed them from his perch, and waited for what he felt was near an hour before following.

And here he was; so close to his prize. Returning from his musings, Darcyn drew back the hand he had been running along the wall he walked beside. He could only hope that he had given the King enough time to read his letter. As he made his way slowly through the sloping tunnel of the Seventh Gate of Minas Tirith, he made sure that he was poised; prepared for what he was willingly walking into. To some it would appear that he was giving in, but in his blackened heart the Elf knew that this was one of the deepest barbs he planned to drive into the King of Gondor's own.

As soon as the first ray of light touched his shoulders when he emerged from the tunnel, Darcyn drew his hood over his head, smiling grimly at the familiar sight that met him in the court. The fountain sung gaily; the White Tree beside it standing tall and magnificent in the sun. The Elf itched to set it aflame, to watch it burn to the ground, just as its King would soon do. Darcyn's gait was steady and proud as he walked silently over the white stones towards the guards standing near the fountain. When he reached them, the Elf kept his head bowed, and prayed that they could not see the smile on his face as he uttered eleven carefully considered words.

"Hello, soldiers of Gondor. I am going to kill your King."

~.~.~

A chair crashed.

"I cannot believe you did not _tell_ me, son of Rivendell!"

Servants outside of the study paused at the furious sound of their King's voice, which rang through the thick wood of the door with little effort. Adala; bearing an arm full of towels; had barely a second to step back before said door was flung open with such force that it nearly ricoched back into its original place. She flattened herself against the wall as Aragorn stormed out, his eyebrows furrowed over blazing grey eyes and his crown glinting on his dark head.

One of her towels fluttered to the floor, and Adala bit her lip when Aragorn's foot brushed it and he halted. "I am sorry, my lord," she said, stepping forward and bowing to retrieve the cloth.

Aragorn's eyes softened somewhat at her obvious anxiousness. "Adala, it is all right. Worry not. Let us just be glad I did not slip on it, correct?"

Glancing up at him, Adala allowed herself a small smile and nodded. "Yes, my lord, that would not have been a very nice feat."

"Indeed it would not have." Aragorn tried to return her smile, yet the anger and fear that broiled within his heart kept it at bay. "What are you doing, Adala? Is Arwen all right?"

"Yes, she is well." Adala straightened and hoisted her burden farther up into her arms. "She is sleeping. Lord Elrond is with her. I decided to get rid of these dirty rags."

"Ah." Aragorn's eyes flickered automatically down the hall where, at the end of it and some way around the corner, Arwen still lay in a quiet room. "I meant to go see her; to speak to her; but my heart bids me go another direction."

Adala studied the face of Elessar. Aragorn was her lord, and she may have been born a worker of Minas Tirith's palace, but Adala knew a good Man when she met one, and King Elessar was certainly one of them. Therefore she knew that the heartache and fear that he felt was taking its toll on him; she could see it in the weary lines of his noble face. Adala's King was in torment, and her heart twisted when she realized that there was little she could do to help with the mess that had invaded the White City.

"I do not think you should worry so much about being away from her, my lord," the woman said. "She understands that Lord Legolas needs you as well."

Something flickered in Aragorn's eyes, and the pained crease appeared between his eyebrows once more. "I know," he said. "Thank you, Adala. I am sorry for almost knocking you over in my rage. Forgive me."

Elladan stepped from the room into the hall as Adala shook her head to dispel her King's apologies. "It is nothing, my lord."

"You cannot always run from an argument," Elladan said with a wry smile, and Aragorn turned a sharp look on him. The Elf raised both hands in a motion of peace. "I spoke clearly, Elessar. He was awake and then unconscious once more in less than a moment. There was no reason to disturb you, nor Arwen. Estel, you cannot let what Dar–"

"We will speak of this elsewhere," Aragorn interrupted. "Excuse us, Adala. Bring word to Legolas' room, please, if Arwen or Lord Elrond asks of me."

"I will, my lord." Bowing, the handmaiden shifted the towels in her arms and turned, striding down the hall as Aragorn and Elladan began their own trek in the opposite direction.

"Estel–"

Holding up a hand when Elladan tried once more to speak, Aragorn kept his eyes fixed ahead. "It is done, Elladan. I am not going to play his game and despair. I will get the cure from him, and then I will kill him when I have it. I want to see Legolas."

~.~.~

Elrohir looked up when the door was opened quietly. He watched as Aragorn made his way immediately to the bed, dropping to one knee beside it and reaching for one of Legolas' motionless hands. The Prince was still.

"I take it he did not very much like your news," Elrohir murmured when Elladan came to stand beside him at the window.

"Did you expect him to?" Elladan asked. "Perhaps we should have fetched him."

"It only would have made his heart worry more," Elrohir said softly, his eyes returning to their scanning of the court below. "He was terrified enough. Did you tell him all of it, Elladan?"

When Elrohir let the tense question hang in the air, Elladan knew what it was he spoke of and dropped his eyes. "The blood was too horrible. Would you have told him?"

"I would not have liked to. But he needs to know. He is a healer also, probably more so than either of us. He and Elrond will be able to help Legolas only if both of them know every way that the poison is affecting him."

Lowering his voice, Elladan kept his eyes fixed on the Fields of Pelennor. "We need the cure. No matter how much Father and Elessar do for Legolas now, it will not save him."

"Elladan, enough." Elrohir's retort was sharp. "There is no reason to speak like that. Despair is not welcome here; never has it been welcome anywhere near us, our family, or our friends. We will help him, and to do so we must all share the truth of how the poison is progressing."

"How is the poison progressing?" Both Elves turned at Aragorn's voice. The King was standing now, and both his eyes and his tone were knowing. "There is something more to last night that you are not telling me."

Elladan glanced at Elrohir, who returned his look and then sighed, stepping towards the bed and lowering himself onto the edge of it. He motioned for Aragorn to do the same, and the Man did so, slowly, not looking away from his eyes. The room was still for a moment before Elrohir spoke. "When Legolas woke last night... he could speak. A little," he added when Aragorn's eyes widened. "Estel, I say a little, and you must believe me when I say that he was too delirious to do much more. But he spoke to us to tell us what was hurting him the most."

"That is all?" Aragorn asked.

"That is all," Elrohir answered sadly.

"Once they fell, did the others ever wake once more? The Elves who were killed?"

"I cannot remember everything clearly, Estel," Elrohir said. "It was many years ago. I wish that I could. But I never remember them being able to respond to anything Elrond said. That in itself is a very good sign."

Another deep breath rose Aragorn's shoulders. "I wish I would have been here."

Glancing over his shoulder at his twin, Elrohir hesitated to speak. Aragorn noticed and pierced him with a demanding gaze. "Tell me everything that happened, Elrohir."

"There was blood," Elladan spoke the words in a forced rush before Elrohir could, or before he lost the courage to do so. Ignoring the horror that flashed across Aragorn's face, the Elf continued, "He acted strange at first, as if he was trying to move but could not. He was able to touch head, but I could tell that doing so was what caused the real pain to begin. I tried speaking to him, but he couldn't respond. It took him a moment to tell me that it was his stomach. I checked it, and Valar..." Elladan's voice trailed off for a moment and he dropped his head. "It was horrible. The marks had spread even farther; grown. They were black, but the edges were inflamed. I told Elrohir to fetch Father. But Legolas... One moment it seemed as if he was unconscious again, but then... I do not know where the blood came from. I only know that I was frightened that it was too much to lose."

Aragorn's eyes reflected the horror and heartache that raged in his heart as he shook his head numbly. So this was the reality of it. The reality of the torment of Morëha. It would not always be that Legolas lay unconscious, pale, cold. There was more; more horrors that had already come and that were sure to come again. The hatred that Aragorn felt for the twisted soul – who had known what this poison would do, and had even then used it against someone as innocent as Legolas – was so great that it almost frightened the King. For a moment he sat in silence and the sons of Elrond let him, sadly watching his face, watching as Aragorn was reduced to an ordeal that; just like the near death of Arwen; was one that he could not control.

After what seemed ages, Aragorn bowed his head and released Legolas' hand, laying it against the Elf-prince's stomach. He spoke nary a word as he stood, his crown catching the glint of light that beamed in from the window. Turning to it, Aragorn closed his eyes and soaked in the comforting warmth of the sun, though he knew in his heart that the chill that had taken ahold of his very bones would not subside until the poison raging through his friend's body did so as well.

"I must speak with Faramir," he finally said. "I have not been clear enough with he and Joln. They need to know that I still plan to uplift my burden of responsibility, and Cordil shall be buried with honor. It is high time that I cease this foolish grieving and act as their King."

Elrohir's eyes were sad. "Estel–"

"I know," Aragorn interrupted, turning to the Elf. "I have every right to grieve. You are wise, my brother, and I am grateful that you are here. But I am still Elessar, and I must continue to hold my place with the honor I swore I would."

"You shall," Elladan said, stepping towards him. "We will watch over Legolas. If ever you need us to help you as you start your actions against these new assaults, you have but to call."

Aragorn reached out and clasped the Elf's forearm, squeezing it tightly. "_Hannon le_."

Nodding, Elladan smiled at him before turning back to the window. Aragorn accepted the hand that Elrohir held up to him. "_Hebo estel_," the Elf said softly. "The end is far from here."

Aragorn's smile returned as Elrohir echoed Elrond's earlier words. Turning his eyes to Legolas, the Man drew in a deep breath and bent over the bed, reaching out to touch the Elf's hand once more. This time the coldness of it did not make him flinch. "You will live," he told his old friend. "This poison holds nothing over you. We are all here waiting, my friend, and we will be here when you awake once more. I know that you cannot fight this battle alone, and you shall not." A fierce light entered Aragorn's eyes. "I swear to you, Legolas, I will get this cure. You need not worry. I will save you."

Aragorn squeezed Legolas' hand, and as he released it he heard Elladan say darkly under his breath, "How cruel of a poison! To steal away a friend and give him back only for a false moment of hope. Curse the spawn who brought this upon the Prince of Greenwood!"

Aragorn's own anger burned more brightly. Turning to him, the Man rose and met Elladan's eyes. "He must be here. He must be somewhere near Gondor, or in the lands of it. He will not have gone far. He uses the guise of his race to make it through my city without anyone becoming suspicious of him; he is simply another Elf from Rivendell, welcome in Minas Tirith because of my ties with the Elves. He knew that it would be easy."

Elrohir could read his foster brother's mind as well as he'd ever been able. "It is not your fault, Estel, that he goes through loopholes to accomplish his dirty tasks."

"I know," Aragorn said, rubbing his forehead wearily before straightening. "I must go. I pray Faramir has not gone far, nor Joln. Cordil was killed in the reaches of Gondor, and where that was is where he's waiting."

Elladan turned from the window. "Waiting, Aragorn? You honestly believe that he will return?"

"Or start something even bigger than one poisoning." Aragorn cast a sorrowful glance at Legolas. "His hate is insatiable. He will stay until Legolas is..." The King trailed off, refusing to say even the mere word. "Or he will wait and offer me the cure in whatever cunning way he deems necessary. But we also must not ignore the fact that he very well might unleash something more horrible."

"He would not risk open attack on Gondor," Elrohir said. "Not now."

"We cannot think the way we normally would," Aragorn said. "We must force ourselves to think in some resemblance to him. For so many years has this contempt brewed in his mind and heart."

"_Misplaced_ contempt," Elrohir muttered.

Aragorn smiled at him sadly. "Yes, I know. But we must be ready."

Elladan leaned back against the window sill and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted. Faramir did not this time bother to knock as he pushed in through the door, one hand on the sword at his belt and his grey eyes wild. "My lord!"

Turning in surprise, Aragorn dropped his hand and stepped towards his Steward. He stopped before speaking when he saw the cluster of guards behind Faramir, all standing silent and attentive, some facing the outwards hall. Brows furrowing, the King tried to see over their heads and demanded, "What is it?"

"They are your personal guard, my lord," Faramir replied in somewhat more of a calmer tone, though his entire form remained rigid. "The importance of your protection has doubled as of late."

Aragorn met the other Man's eyes. "What happened?"

"There was a threat made against you."

Aragorn felt more than saw Elladan and Elrohir appear at each of his sides. "By who?"

"We have him in custody, my lord." Faramir glanced over his shoulder, before looking back to his King and softening his tone. "He says he wishes to see you. He is being restrained in the throne room, due to the... unusual circumstances."

"He knows, does he not?" Aragorn asked.

Faramir's brows furrowed. "Pardon, my lord?"

"He told you that he is the one responsible for Cordil's death," Aragorn said, his eyes suddenly cold.

"He..." Hesitating, Faramir glanced at Elladan, whose gaze was just as demanding. The Man sighed. "Yes. My lord–"

But Aragorn was already moving. Pushing past Faramir, the King weaved deftly through the several guards, who all stood stiffly to attention as he passed. His heart was thundering in rhythm with the steps he took, and Aragorn was vaguely aware of the soft sounds of Elladan and Elrohir beside him, as well as the louder procession of soldiers that were not far behind.

The closer he drew to the throne room, the tighter the apprehension and fear and fury seemed to squeeze his heart. His mind did not linger on nor think about the ground underneath his feet nor the scenery that passed him as he walked. His entire focus was set on the person said to be waiting for him; waiting as a prisoner. The King of Gondor suffered mixed feelings. He had no desire to see this person – this _coward_ – and nor would he ever again. But Aragorn could not deny that in the back of his mind he wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of him. He could only hope that Elrohir and Elladan would keep him from doing anything foolish.

Because of where they had journeyed from, the King and his small procession came upon the throne room by way of a hall to its left, closer to the door of the Citadel than the actual Seat. Stopping in the shadow of the archway, Aragorn folded his arms across his chest and bowed his head.

Elladan laid a hand on his shoulder, saying softly, "Estel?"

"I must reach inside of me for patience that I fear I don't have," Aragorn muttered. Blowing his breath out through his teeth, he glanced out into the throne room before looking away again. "If I lose control of my anger, we stand no chance of retrieving the cure." When the sons of Elrond exchanged a glance Aragorn added, "_If_ he has it, yes, I know."

"You do not have to speak to him," Elrohir said. "I and Elladan would."

"No. He wants to talk to me. Is that not what he said, Faramir?"

Faramir stepped forwards from the guards and nodded, his eyes grave. "Yes, my lord. He asked for the King."

Aragorn nodded and turned back to the entryway. "I don't want to play his games, but much more is on the line than my pride."

The new voice that rang through the long stone hall chilled three of its inhabitants to the bone. "Then why not leave your pride in the shadow of that hall, and step out to face me, King of Men?"

Dropping his arms to his sides, Aragorn fisted his hands and steeled his heart as best as he could before striding forwards, leaving the dark hall behind. Jaw clenched, eyes blazing, Aragorn, King Elessar of Gondor came into the throne room knowing full well who awaited him there. And though the Man knew that he was at this enemy's mercy – nay, Legolas' life was at this enemy's mercy – nothing could cloak the fierce light of righteous anger that enaminated from him as he said one word, speaking the name like a curse.

"Darcyn."

~.~.~

**TBC**.


	5. Chapter 5

~.~.~

**Chapter** **Five**

_"It is useless to meet revenge with revenge; it will heal nothing."  
- Frodo Baggins_

~.~.~

There was no difference in appearance. It was a gift – or perhaps, even a curse – of the Elves. They aged so slowly; as time passed them by it did little to their bodies, even if they carried their years around in wisdom and experience. Their fair faces were rarely touched by the toil of the span of time they lived.

The only thing of Darcyn that had changed was his eyes. Aragorn could see – even from afar – that there was a light in them; not a light of goodness, or kindness, or nobility. No, it was a light of madness. Of malice. It shone brightly in the corrupted Elf's eyes as the King of Gondor made his way towards him over the stone floor. Aragorn held those eyes steadily with his own, sending a silent prayer to Iluvitar to grant him the patience and the strength to face this enemy once more.

When the King was no more than a yard away from the chair Darcyn sat in, he stopped. The hall fell silent. After a moment, the small smirk playing at the edge of Darcyn's lips grew, and he tilted his head back, appraising the Man. "Well," he eventually said. "You're taller."

Aragorn had no doubt that his face slid into an expression of incredulousness. Silently cursing his slip, the Man gazed straight into the Elf's eyes and said nothing. One of the guards standing behind Darcyn's chair shifted slightly, rattling the chains that were wrapped around the Elf's middle, pinning his arms behind him; no doubt in manacles. Aragorn could not see.

An annoyed breath left Darcyn's lips. "Aren't you going to say something?"

Aragorn's stare remained cool and even. "The words I have to say to you are limited."

"Oh, Valar, don't dance around me with such formalities," Darcyn chuckled. "I knew you long before you were a pretty King; just a young, wild man running around the forests and cleaning up for supper in Elrond's home."

"You forget, Darcyn, but it was _my_ home as well."

Darcyn had turned his face away, but his eyes moved to Aragorn once more. "Yes, Mortal," he said. "A home of criminals."

It was a taunt; a barb; and Aragorn knew it. But to hear this Elf speak of the high line of Eldar that lived in Imladris as if they were the ones in the wrong made his blood boil and he took a sharp step forward, saying through his teeth, "The only criminal it ever housed was _you_."

"Thank Iluvitar I left when I did," Darcyn said.

"You did not leave for your own leisure. You were exiled. And you ran like the coward you are."

The insult seemed to do nothing to the Elf. He merely shook his head. "Test me all you'd like, King of Gondor. Your words are meaningless to me. And I find no reason to dwell in the matter of the past. The present is much more pressing, I deem."

Breathing steadily through his nose, Aragorn clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. "All you do is create death and destruction, Darcyn."

"Speaking of my destruction could last for hours," Darcyn said with a grin. "But perhaps we should wait – for you have not much time, correct? How is Legolas?"

"You will not speak his name," Aragorn snarled, "without calling him _Prince_."

"Whatever you wish, my liege," Darcyn said mockingly. "_Prince_ _Legolas_. I heard that he was sick."

Eyes flashing, Aragorn looked away to still the biting remark on his tongue and instead met the gaze of the second guard behind the chair. The young Man stared at him for a moment, his eyes uneasy and confused, before dropping his head. Aragorn watched the guard for a moment longer before blowing his breath out slowly through his nose. His voice was low; full of authority and anger when he next spoke. "Give me the cure, Darcyn."

"How do you expect me to do that?" Darcyn jerked his shoulder forward, rattling the chains and making every Man in armor instantly tense. "My hands are a little tied at the moment."

Before the Elf could so much as chuckle at himself, his head snapped to the side when Aragorn's fist connected sharply with his jaw. The resounding crack of skin on skin echoed throughout the stone corridor. Silent, the soldiers of Gondor stared in open-mouthed shock at their King; at the thunderous anger on his normally calm and kind face.

"I will not play your games!" Aragorn said furiously. "If killing is the only thing that you are capable of now, that is your curse. I have seen few good people sink as low as you have; into such madness and darkness. Only now do I realize how obsessed you are with my pain and I tell you now, Darcyn, that my pain could never equal yours if you do not give me the cure _now_."

Darcyn remained silent as he raised his head, and the moment their eyes met once more the Elf smiled. "Forgive me. I seem to have misplaced it."

Aragorn's arm was already raised to strike again when Elrohir's firm voice reverberated down the hall. "Enough, Elessar."

Although he could tell that the Peredhil was making no move to approach them, Aragorn heard the warning in Elrohir's tone nonetheless. He forced himself to lower his hand, turning sharply away when a laugh spilled from Darcyn's lips. "Prince Elrohir! Ah, I knew you would not leave. Why not come; join us? You must be angry with me as well."

There was no answer.

"We are not angry, Darcyn," Aragorn said quietly, his back to the Elf. He could feel when Darcyn frowned at him. Turning, the King pierced him with a gaze the color of steel. "We are done."

Darcyn's lips pulled back from his teeth. "Oh, we are far from _done_, King Elessar. Do not attempt to start making the rules. One wrong move, one tipped balance, and your friend is dead."

"This is not a game!" Aragorn shouted, "This is life! A _life_ that you are toying with!" Stopping abruptly, the Man drew in a deep breath and continued in a quieter tone. "I know that your playful threats are meaningless. You would never leave this as it is."

"You seem certain," Darcyn murmured.

"I am."

"How?"

"You thrive on playing games." Clasping his hands behind his back, Aragorn straightened himself to his full height. "I know; I've known it since I first met you in Elrond's court. When you spoke; even of the smallest things; you were always cunning. You could manipulate anyone to fall into your views. Even I. Then again, I was only a witless Mortal child, correct? Tell me, if I have always been so meaningless in your eyes, why were you so intent on educating me of the ways of your people; helping me to understand your history and your values and your ways of life? You were not my tutor, but always you would pull me aside and give me lessons when you thought I was in need. Do not think that I've forgotten."

Darcyn's jaw was clenched so tightly that his words were clipped. "You have no idea what you're speaking of, King of Men."

"I do not?" Eyes piercing, Aragorn gazed at the Elf for a moment before beginning to pace a slow circle around the chair. "You say this, why?"

"You speak as if I actually cared for your well-being," Darcyn said. "You are clearly naive."

"Is that all?"

"It is not. You believe that I taught you our ways because I wished to ease your life among us?"

"I can see no other motive."

"Let me tell you a story, Elessar. You can only imagine my surprise when I first heard that Elrond had fostered a Mortal; taken it upon himself to raise you. I understood more when I learned that you were an heir of Isildur. Elrond had been known to cater to others in the line of Gondor. But you were different. I could see it immediately."

Aragorn was still walking in liesurely circles and asked, "How was I different?"

"Elrond cared for you." Darcyn's voice resounded with scorn. Aragorn's step faltered and he halted behind the Elf, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. "He did not care for you in the manner of a young charge who he must educate of his future. No, it was much more than that. You became his son. I had always held Elrond in high esteem; he was a good leader, and a wise and just lord. He led many out of despair and counciled when hope was needed. He was not naive. He knew the ways of the world, and when he spoke, it was always the truth. But when you came..." Darcyn tilted his head backwards to acknowledge the King where he stood behind him. "He changed. Did you know that there were rumors, at one point at least, that Elrond's face was made of stone? I suppose it would be because he never smiled. Imagine our surprise at one of the first feasts he held after you'd arrived – when he smiled! Among the council it was palpable. He was beaming as he formally introduced you to us: Estel. You were his new charge. Charge! You were still a babe; a helpless babe, but with enough sway to coax a smile out of the face of Elrond. And do you know what surprised me the most? Elrond's affection for you did not lessen as you grew older. It increased.

"At first you were not allowed to go farther than the stables without the Princes escorting you, he was so wary of your safety. It was not as if you needed it! All of the Elves of Imladris knew who you were – knew that you were considered Elrond's son, and that you were to be treated with upmost respect. An _Adan_, a son of the Elves. For awhile I ignored the bitter feeling the thought left me with. You were not such a bad child. You were polite, and never once did I hear you speak ill of the Firstborn. You were not as clumsy as I'd expected you to be. But you tried too hard, Mortal King. You tried too hard to be one of us. You are – and were only ever – a Man. Of a race that I have never seen much worth in."

Aragorn hesitated the slightest moment before beginning to pace again, his boots creating soft taps against the stone floor in rhythm with the swishing of his robes. "You tell me that the hate you are lashing out with so violently has only to do with your dislike of the Edain?"

"Now, King of Men, you must let me finish." Darcyn's eyes rose to meet the Man's when Aragorn passed in front of him. "Do I have your permission to do so?"

Forcing back the anger that rose like bile in the back of his throat, Aragorn turned away and continued to walk. Darcyn obviously took the Man's silence as a sign to continue. "Yes, I never saw worth in you. Any of you. Do you know how many supposedly great Men I saw fall to the power of Sauron? Or to their own greed? Even the race of Numenor was weak. Your father could not defend his own home."

Aragorn's heart burned as he turned again to the Elf. "My father fought to his death against the minions of Sauron."

"Yes," Darcyn said. "To his death. And such an easy death. If it had been a gathering of Elves, the Orcs would have been felled in no more than a meal's time."

"You are not superior, Darcyn," Aragorn said. "That is a misplaced concept. If you would choose to grovel to yourself, naming yourself the highest, the Mortal people low; you are beyond my reach. I will not wallow in petty dislike among our races."

"Low?" Darcyn asked, his lips turning up in a sneer. "No, Elessar, in Imladris you were the opposite of 'low'. You were raised on a pedastal in Elrond's eyes. He was such a fool; falling so easily into the mind-set that you would grow to be an ally. That you would redeem your race. But I suppose you did not let him down. Look where you are; look what you have become. A hero."

Aragorn's jaw clenched. "I am not a hero."

"But aren't you? You are a shining King. You were a captain that swooped in at the eve of war and redeemed your city and your people. You fought at the side of the greatest Men in the land at the time. You fought – willing to give your life – for people who were wary of you becoming their King. You healed the people of Gondor without taking on the crown of kings. Gandalf the White is your close ally. You have the support of three Elven realms, and you have the hand of the most beautiful Elf lady in all of Arda. If you are not a hero, what are you?"

"What did you say?" Aragorn demanded.

Darcyn paused, narrowing his eyes. "I said quite a lot, Elessar."

Turning in alarm, Aragorn waved a hand at the seven of his Men standing at silent attention. "To your Queen's chambers."

One of them did not bother to hide his shock. "My lord–"

"Now! One may stay but the rest of you must go." When Aragorn heard footsteps approaching from behind, he turned and fixed Faramir with a piercing look. "I do not play, Steward. Go. All of you."

When Faramir halted in surprise and opened his mouth to protest, Elrohir stepped around his shoulder and interrupted. "I do not think–"

"Take them to Arwen's room," Aragorn said. "Tell Elladan to find Lord Elrond. Now."

Elrohir was inclined to argue, but the look of urgency in Aragorn's eyes stilled the remark on his tongue. Nodding, he gave a short bow. "As you wish. Come, Men of Gondor! With me!"

The authority in the Peredhil Elf's voice startled the guards into action. As they all dispersed around the chair and marched quickly to Elrohir's side, the Man holding Darcyn's chains stayed; moving to stand several feet away; and Aragorn gave him an appriciative nod before turning to watch the small group disappear out of the great doors at the end of the hall. Faramir turned at them, staring at his King in confusion, and only after a moment did he follow.

As soon as they were gone, Aragorn rounded on Darcyn once more, his voice a strained command. "How did you know that Arwen still lives?"

Darcyn would have denied it to his death. But Aragorn was close, thus he saw the flicker of frustration that flashed across the Elf's eyes before Darcyn composed himself and smiled once more. "Oh, she survived, did she? That's quite a damper on my plans."

Aragorn realized that Darcyn had not been surprised — frustrated, yes, but not surprised — to learn that Arwen still lived, and it only confirmed his suspicions. "How did you know?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Is that why you sent your Men?" Darcyn tilted his head back, studying the King. "To fly to her rescue in case I had some sort of traitor waiting to finish her off?"

Aragorn glared at him. "No."

"Your eyes say otherwise." Smiling; almost gently; the Elf nodded his head, as if agreeing with himself. "Yes, this shall be fun."

"What are you talking about?"

"Perhaps you should hold more concern for _yourself_ next time, Elessar," Darcyn said, "instead of always focusing on the safety of others."

Aragorn stared at him for a moment in confusion, but as he opened his mouth to speak he heard the unmistakable sound of quick footsteps on the stone floor behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck instantly stood on end, and it was by some unknown blessing that he knew that the person approaching was a foe. Watching him, Darcyn's eyes widened in surprise and disappointment as soon as he saw that the King knew, and it was all the prompting Aragorn needed to know that he was in danger. He turned sharply on his heel.

To come face to face with the man adorned in the armor of Gondor, and a glint of steel as a blade was raised.

He had no weapon. Aragorn realized, pondered, mourned, and accepted this all within the span of a second. He knew that there was little to no chance of standing against this enemy and escaping with his life. But he was a warrior; a King of Men; and he would not go down without a fight.

Raising an arm in defense, he steeled himself against the pain that bloomed in his forearm as the knife sliced clean and true. The other man's eyes widened before a fist connected squarely with his nose, sending him back several feet. Aragorn twisted deftly and raised his leg, delivering a firm kick to the assailant's stomach even as the dagger was raised once more and both his crown and the soldier's helmet fell to the ground. It revealed the wild, gruff face of an Easterling. Ducking under the blade, Aragorn surged forward and caught the Haradrim in the chest with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground and sending the weapon sliding across the floor with a light scrape of metal. Aragorn glanced at it with grim satisfaction before sucking in a breath of surprise when a knee was brought up into his ribs.

The unexpected strength of his enemy shocked him, and he could only strike out with his free elbow – feeling a twinge of triumph when he felt a nose crunch once more under its force – before the Easterling kicked out again and sent him reeling into a sitting position. Catching himself on the balls of his feet, Aragorn crossed his arms and caught the kick the assailant shot out, twisting the man's leg and flipping him over. A spark of hope surged through the King as he realized that he had effectively pinned his attacker, and he prepared to lean over him and grab his arms before horror hit him with a sickening wave as he watched Darcyn smile and kick the knife towards his minion.

The pinned Haradrim took advantage of his distraction and violently twisted his body, throwing the King sideways. Aragorn cried out when his head hit the floor, momentarily stunning him, giving his attacker time to writhe out of his now lax grip.

"Guards!" It was a hopeless call, but Aragorn realized that it was the only thing left that he could do. His heart fell as he watched the enemy grab the knife and turn, striking out at him when he tried to stand. Drawing back instinctively, his head pounding, Aragorn could do nothing but a meagar block as the other man rose to his feet and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back.

Aragorn clenched his jaw when the assailant forced his face in the direction of Darcyn. Although he was still chained; helpless; to the chair, the Elf's face shone with joy, a satisfied smile gracing his lips. "Shout for them again, and your friend will never see the cure."

Aragorn's face darkened with fury, but his mouth closed nonetheless.

Darcyn smiled. "_Hannon_ _le_. I am not going to kill you, Elessar."

"Forgive me for not uttering profound thanks."

"I would never have asked that of you."

"_Why_, Darcyn?"

"You would be of no use to me dead yet." Shifting so that he was more comfortable, Darcyn winced at the rattle his restraints gave. "Hurry and finish with him," he said, nodding towards his minion, whose grip on Aragorn tightened. "I am tired of being in these chains."

As the handle of the knife was raised and poised above his temple, Aragorn closed his eyes. _'I am sorry, my friend,_' he lamented silently. '_I will still do everything in my power to get the cure. Until there is not one more breath left in my body, I will fight. I swear it_.'

Aragorn heard Darcyn's warning cry of, "Behind you, Adan!", before he felt anything from the knife handle. The King's eyes flew open in surprise, but the assailant was already falling, slumping over him, the knife clattering to the floor. Shocked, Aragorn shoved the Haradrim away and leapt to his feet as soon as he saw the arrow that produced from the exposed flesh between the shoulder and back plates of the armor. The fletching of the lethal bringer of his salvation made the King look up sharply.

Lowering his bow, at the end of the hall; face grave, bare feet set firmly apart, and eyes bright; stood Legolas.

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_Author's Note: Our Elf is awake!_

_Hello, all. You are all absolutely wonderful. This story kept being pushed farther and farther back to the edge of my conscious; life can be dreadfully hectic. That's all the excuse I'll give. From now on you will all be hearing from me separately, I promise. I even have worked ahead to ensure such a long gap won't happen again (Except if computer problems arise once more, that is). Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to continue to hear from you! _


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: I thought I'd try to give my readers a little gift as an apology for being so late with my last chapter. So here is the next; sooner than usual (isn't THAT the understatement of the year ;-)_

_I hope you enjoy, you wonderful people! Please drop me a note at the end and tell me what you think!_

_**Disclaimers can be found in Chapter One.**_

~.~.~

**Chapter Six**

_"Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay."_

_- Aragorn son of Arathon_

~.~.~

Only after studying the dead Man to assure himself of safety did Legolas look up into Aragorn's eyes. His mouth was set in a grim line. To a stranger's sight the effects of a viscious poison would not be visible; the Elf-prince appeared as a shining warrior – strong, sure, unheeded.

Yet his eyes shone with pain and exhaustion that Aragorn had never seen there before.

"You are well," Legolas murmured after a moment, allowing himself a short, satisfied nod. "I have not failed."

Aragorn's heart warmed with affection for his friend, but his tight throat would not allow him to speak. Darcyn was the first to recover from his shock. When the Elf slowly released the chains he had been holding; prepared for his follower to free him; the sharp clatter that they gave drew Legolas' attention. Aragorn had to fight the urge to wince when the Elf's eyes widened.

"It was _you_," Legolas hissed. His voice was hoarse from disuse, but it rang against the palace walls with contempt.

Darcyn grinned at him. "Greetings, Prince."

Legolas' face blazed with rage that not even his fatigue could mask. "How dare you even set foot in the realm of Gondor!"

Darcyn gazed at him for a moment, his twinkling eyes taking in the other Elf's dishievled appearance; his bare feet and his unbound hair; the dark circles adorning his eyes – eyes normally sparkling with vitality and life – now clouded with agony. After a moment Darcyn looked to Aragorn, who was clutching his wounded arm and staring at Legolas as if expecting him to suddenly disappear.

"Well," Darcyn finally said. "Let's not all stand about staring at each other like fools. There is quite a lot of explaining to do."

Aragorn turned threateningly on the Elf. "Be silent," he demanded.

Legolas, however, had noticed the blood on the Man's sleeve and started forwards, saying in alarm, "Aragorn, you are wounded!"

"Stop!" Darcyn said sharply. "Listen to me. I want Elessar to tell you why I'm here. Now."

Legolas glanced quickly at Aragorn, but the King averted his eyes to the floor, almost slumping under the weight of his friend's scrutiny. Since the morn that Legolas had fallen; eleven days ago; the only thing Aragorn had prayed for was that the Elf would wake. Now here Legolas stood, his face calm and questioning, and it took all of Aragorn's strength to not turn and flee. "I cannot tell you here," the Man said quietly. "Not this way."

The fear in Legolas' eyes grew. And he knew. He knew, once again, that something was horribly wrong with him, something so wrong that it was keeping those he trusted most from telling him what it was. Denial flared in his heart, but when his mind strayed to the mark on his arm and the fire in his stomach, that beacon of hope vanished. In that moment was when his first thread of determination came undone.

"Let us leave him," the Elf suddenly said. Pushing his fear to the back of his mind, Legolas took a step forward and held out a hand. "Let us speak elsewhere. We don't have to—"

The world upended, and the Elf's voice failed at the same time that his legs did. As the fire engulfed his body, searing him, stealing his strength, he could only apologize silently to his friend before his knees struck the stone floor with a sickening crack. Even Darcyn winced with distaste at the sound. The Elf grasped his chains once more and watched as Aragorn ran with uncanny speed for a Mortal towards his kneeling friend. _'Let them panic,'_ he thought snidely to himself. _'They've no idea what awaits them.'_

"Can you breathe?" Aragorn asked his first question before he'd even reached the prince. Dropping to his knees in front of him, he reached out and grasped Legolas' neck gently, lifting his head. Legolas' eyes were full of fear. His lips formed the word, 'yes', and Aragorn added, "Your legs?"

"Fine, Aragorn. My stomach."

"I know, my friend, I am sorry I cannot help," Aragorn said quietly. "Valar, your skin is cold." The Man's adreniline was not anywhere near letting his panic get the better of him. He did not feel the pain of his wound, nor the blood that soaked his tunic's sleeve as he shrugged out of his robe, using one hand to throw it around Legolas' shoulders. "What on Arda possessed you to leave your bed like this?"

Legolas' tremors had begun to subside. "I had no choice," he gasped. "Aragorn, they're here for you."

The darkness of Legolas' words brought Aragorn's eyes to the Elf's face. "What do you mean?"

"You must sound the alarm." Shrugging away from the King's hand, Legolas glared at Darcyn over Aragorn's shoulder. "There were two men in my room. Dressed as your guards. They spoke of a plot to incapitate you and take you by way of the Silent Street. They named a 'master', and I know now that it is him."

So great was Aragorn's shock that he did not have enough time to react when Legolas suddenly stood, stepping around him. "_You_, Darcyn!" the Elf said angrily. "Where are they? They're already there, are they not? Waiting? What will they do when you do not meet them with your prize?"

"You insult me, Prince!" Darcyn called down the corridor, "You do not truly believe that I have no back-up plan, do you?"

Aragorn stood quickly. "Legolas, we need to find Elrond," he said. Turning towards him, Legolas nodded and bent to retrieve his bow, but Darcyn's cold voice stopped them both.

"But you cannot leave. Do you not remember this, King of Gondor? Or have you already forgotten what you need from me?"

"I have not forgotten," Aragorn said, turning away and speaking to the Elf over his shoulder. "But I will not allow Legolas to stand here and be threatened by a coward who sits in chains as if he is ruler of the world. We will leave, and return only when I believe that you are ready to tell us the location of the cure."

"You speak as if you have a choice!" Darcyn said angrily. "And you do not. I will bring your entire city to ruin!"

When he felt Legolas disappear from his side, Aragorn turned back sharply to see the Elf standing before the chair, his bow drawn again, the head of his arrow in perfect alignment with Darcyn's surprised face. "No, Legolas!" Aragorn said frantically, "Do not shoot him!"

"Why not?" Legolas demanded without turning nor releasing his hold. "We will guise ourselves; approach his men at the Street; imprison them; question them of his full purpose – there is no need to keep him alive any longer!"

Darcyn kept his eyes fixed on the arrowhead not inches away from his nose, but directed his words at the other Elf. "If I may object–"

"You may not," Legolas growled, his eyes bright with anger. "You should have perished many years ago in the Trollshaws. How do you still live?"

"That's not the question you should be asking."

Aragorn reached out towards his friend, whispering, "Legolas, there's something–"

"Wait, Aragorn," Legolas said sharply. Aragorn fell silent. Dropping his bow to his waist, the Elf-prince again met Darcyn's eyes. "Tell me. Did you truly believe that you would take an entire kingdom of Men?"

"Of course not," Darcyn answered. "That is no simple feat. I came with another purpose."

Moving his eyes pointedly to the dead Easterling lying several feet away, Legolas said, "In which you have failed."

"I suppose you believe that now all is well."

"We know where your remaining allies wait for you. Here you are in the chains of Minas Tirith. And Elessar still lives."

"And you?" Darcyn asked quietly.

All color drained from Legolas' face. He tried to hide his unease, clenching his jaw and stepping back, but for a moment he was quiet. Aragorn stepped forward and gripped his shoulder, squeezing it tightly.

"I have been unwell," the Elf finally said. "But I will regain my strength."

"You know this?" Darcyn asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It must be," Legolas murmured. "It would be unaccpetable for my health to fail now. Not when you have entered Gondor."

"You speak as if you are in control of your health, Prince Legolas. If you are set on protecting the King of Gondor, you must find my men quickly. Your time is limited. As well is Elessar's."

Aragorn surprised them both by reaching forward and grabbing Legolas' shoulder, pulling him back. Startled, the Elf turned to him in confusion, meeting his friend's eyes as Aragorn held him steady. "He must not be the one to tell you," the Man murmured. "Why you're..."

"Then you must," Legolas said softly when the King couldn't finish. "Tell me, _mellon nin_."

Aragorn found himself at an abrupt loss. Glancing at Legolas' arm, he hesitated before grasping it and raising it between them. He pulled back the tunic sleeve to reveal the inflamed pinmark before pressing Legolas' arm against the Elf's chest, meeting his friend's eyes, his own full of pain.

Legolas understood. Perhaps it was his own instincts, perhaps his uncanny ability of reading his friend's mind, perhaps the tiny warnings that had been whispering to him from the first moment he had woken to the pain. Be it either of the three, the prince of Greenwood suddenly knew that the hole in his arm had been the gate-way to a poison that was ravaging through his body – even at that very moment.

It had been the gate-way to a poison that was killing him.

Instead of letting the horror of this thought be the thing to speak, Legolas drew in a deep breath and asked, "How long?"

Aragorn matched the Elf's words with a stubborn shake of his head. It was quiet for a moment as he gathered the courage to speak; the cold statues stared down at the Elves and Man in silence; outside of the palace walls, clouds had floated to block the sun. "Ten days," Aragorn said, nearly choking on the words. "No more."

Legolas nodded. He did not speak at first. With a trembling hand, he bent and gently set his bow on the ground, almost as if were too heavy for him to hold any longer. Aragorn's heart twisted with pain when he realized that it was probably true.

"I see," Legolas finally murmured. His voice was hollow.

"No, Legolas, you may not do that," Aragorn said fiercely. "You may not simply give in that way. He has the cure, Legolas, that's why he's here." The Man turned cold eyes on Darcyn, and it was his turn to restrain himself from strangling the Elf. "Where is it? You've planned to give it to us all along – that is why you came. You need him alive."

Darcyn stared up at the King. "Where is your Steward?"

Even Legolas turned when Darcyn did not deny Aragorn's claims, his arms folded across his chest. "What?"

Darcyn ignored him, glancing over the King's shoulder towards the closed Doors at the end of the hall. "As for the cure, Elessar, you must not speak as if you know everything that I will do. You'd be surprised what I have tucked under my sleeve." The Elf paused, and his eyes suddenly glinted. "Ah, and here they are; our new visitors!"

Aragorn turned just as the Great Doors slid open, revealing the forms of his Steward, the Peredhil family, and the Queen. Seeing Arwen on her own feet sent a shock of joy and relief through the King's heart, but it was soon smothered by the thought of the terror she was sure to feel when she learned of Darcyn and of his plans. As if sensing his thoughts, the Elleth stepped away from Elrond's supporting arm as soon as she saw the Elf bound in chains before the throne. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

"My lord," Faramir interjected, taking several steps forward. "There is no time. A group of one-hundred Elves of Rivendell has arrived at your bidding; they are making their way towards the Citadel now."

"I did not send for allies from Rivendell," Aragorn said in alarm. "Who is captaining them?"

Legolas was still facing away from them; his presence thus far unnoticed; and therefore he caught the joy that flashed across Darcyn's face at the Steward's words. His heart tightened. "Aragorn," the Elf said, turning to the King, "They are not allies."

"Legolas!" Elladan cried.

"No," Aragorn said sharply when both of Elrond's sons started for their friend. Halting, they glanced at him in surprise, but he was already directing urgent words at Faramir, "You must tell Joln that they are not welcome. They are here to lay siege to the Citadel and must be stopped before they reach this level of the city!"

Faramir's eyes were wide, but – as he had ever – he ignored his own shock and said, "I will ready the Tower Guard."

"All of them," Aragorn said, "and you must hurry."

Faramir nodded, turning and hastening through the Doors, his shouts ringing distantly among the courtyard as he called the Gondorian Men to arms.

"He will not have time to gather enough of them," Legolas murmured.

"You are correct, dear Prince; he will not," Darcyn said, his face glowing. "Your people will die, Elessar. The townsfolk of Gondor may mean nothing to me, but I know that they mean much to you. My Elves find no reason to spare your people when I tell them to not – no matter how hopeless the situation."

"It _is_ hopeless," Aragorn said. "Your numbers do not equal mine. Please, Darcyn, fall them back."

"They are Elves, Elessar. They are much more capable than Men."

"I do not want to fight any of the Eldar."

"Do you not see that you have no choice? It will be a fair fight."

"One hundred. That is all you have."

"Yes."

"I have legions of Men in this city."

"And I have legions more waiting nearby." When Aragorn remained silent, his face ashen, Darcyn smiled. "Your people are dying at this very moment. And I am not finished. If you fail to concede, you will get war, Elessar. I promise you this."

Aragorn stared at him for a moment before turning on his heel, striding away from them; towards those still waiting at the end of the hall. "What are you planning to accomplish?" Legolas asked wearily. "You're mad."

Darcyn's eyes turned towards the Wood Elf. "Have you ever had someone you love taken away from you?" he asked quietly. Legolas' brows furrowed, and Darcyn must have caught the age-old pain that flashed across his eyes because he nodded, his own holding no trace of his previous mirth. "You have. You know what it does to one's heart. You know the destruction it causes."

"It does not grant you the right to try to bring it upon someone else," Legolas said.

"And why not? It is no more than they deserve."

"You cannot live like that, Darcyn. You are not always going to favor what happens to you in this life – that _is_ life. You are far too wise a person to truly believe that terrorizing others will bring you peace."

"Oh, but that is where you are wrong," Darcyn said, his eyes shining. "So very wrong, Woodland prince."

Turning away, Legolas looked to where Aragorn stood with Arwen and the family of Elrond by the leave-way leading towards rooms branching off from the throne hall. The Man caught the Elf's eyes and rose a hand, calling, "Legolas, we must leave."

And then it happened.

Legolas heard the clumsy advance as soon as the man was close enough to the Doors, but there was little he could do; his bow lay too far away, closer to Darcyn than to himself. As soon as he saw the determined, unfamiliar face of the dark man underneath the helmet of Gondor, Legolas turned urgent eyes on Aragorn and mouthed, '_Go_.'

The King understood and pulled Arwen through the door, concealing her from view; and then grabbed Lord Elrond's shoulder. "You must take her somewhere safe," the Man said urgently.

"Elessar!"

Everyone froze at the shouted name. Elrond looked out into the throne room, and his eyes widened at what he saw. The Elf-lord heard Aragorn curse under his breath. He reached out and caught the Man's arm before he could step past him, pulling him back. "No, Aragorn," Elrond murmured. "Wait."

Holding a crossbow aimed at Legolas, the guard waited until the hall fell silent before speaking. His low voice lilted with a thick accent, identifying him as a man of the South. "My orders are simple. All of you leave House. Or I kill him."

"Spilling his blood here will do nothing," Elrond said calmly.

"It will do much," the Easterling said. "Perhaps even be a blessing. He will die much quicker than to a poison." Five beings in the Citadel winced at the mocking, callous words. "And I will find joy in spilling his blood." He raised the bow to perfect his aim and Aragorn could not stop himself from lurching forwards again. Only Elrond's hand held him back. Refusing to turn his head and meet his threatener's eyes, Legolas stared at the King, who held his breath, trying to calm his eyes for his friend's sake. "I will count to three," the Haradrim said. "Third is your strike."

"Elrond," Aragorn breathed, turning to the Elf-lord, "please, take her."

Arwen stepped towards Aragorn. Her eyes were full of fear, but her hand was steady as she slipped it into the King's, squeezing his fingers tightly. "I do not want to leave you," she whispered. "Either of you."

"We have no choice," Elrond said. "We cannot risk Legolas' life."

"One."

Elrohir glanced at the Easterling when he spoke his first count. "And you do not think that they will kill him as soon as we are gone?" the Elf demanded.

"No," Aragorn whispered. "They will take him."

"Enough of this!" Elladan said angrily.

"He speaks right," the Easterling said, hearing the Peredhil's outburst. "Enough. My orders – all you must do is leave."

"Do as he says; go," Legolas said quietly, his hands raised in front of him in the sign of peace.

The Easterling's eyes flickered to Darcyn, who had remained silent thus far. The Elf nodded once in approval, prompting his follower to speak again. "Leave, now; else watch him die."

"What do you want?" Aragorn demanded. "What part of your game is this, Darcyn?"

"This is where you leave, Elessar," Darcyn answered, smiling. "Leave him alone. Flee with your Queen and spare your family's life. Avoid this war. All you must do is call your Men off; let us leave with him."

Elrond reached out and again grabbed Aragorn's arm, pulling him back. "They have left," he murmured in the Man's ear. Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at the retreating forms of the princes and the Queen. "We are leaving, Aragorn. You must make your own choice. I truly believe that if he goes with them now he may live." Pausing, the Elf-lord allowed the King to hear the sudden rings of clashing steel and shouts outside of the Great Doors. "They are here. Many more will die if we do not do as they say."

Aragorn tore his eyes away from his friend, allowing the Elf-lord to see the panic there. "They will take him."

Elrond sighed, averting his eyes. "Yes, Aragorn, they will."

"If I concede to their demands it will mean that I will not be able to send out riders to follow them without risking his life."

"I know, Aragorn."

"I will not know where he is."

"I know."

Stepping back, Aragorn stared at Elrond with disbelief. "How can you consent to this so willingly?"

Elrond's eyes flashed. "My consent is far from willing. I care for Greenwood's Prince as well, Elessar. But I know that as leaders at times we must choose between those we are sworn to protect and those we love. Do you truly wish to risk the lives of Gondor's innocent people?"

"I must choose between the innocent?" Aragorn asked angrily. "They are _both_ innocent, Elrond!"

The Man's distress softened Elrond's heart, and he stepped forwards, laying a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I am sorry, Estel," he said softly. "This is a burden that I never wished for you to bear. But you bear it now despite our wishes – and you must look deep inside of yourself for your choice. You know what is right. Your people need you now, Elessar."

And then Elrond was gone.

Aragorn's heart was cold as he turned back and stepped into the throne room. He looked to Legolas, and the Elf's face betrayed no fear; in its place was calm resignment as he smiled sadly at the King. "You must go."

Aragorn shook his head.

"Go," Legolas said again.

Glancing at Darcyn, the Easterling followed his leading nod and stepped closer to Legolas, drawing the arrow back farther. His actions garnered the desired response. "Don't!" Aragorn raised his hands, stepping back. "I will go. I will leave."

"Farewell, Elessar," Darcyn said with a grin.

Turning towards him, Aragorn infused all of the contempt that he could muster into his eyes. "You will not harm him," he said furiously. "I am doing as you say – and now you must find the courage inside of you to spare those who are innocent, if it is even there."

"You mock my lack of courage," Darcyn said, "but here you stand offering us your protector in exchange for peasants' lives."

"_Enough_," Legolas said sharply. "Leave, Aragorn."

Aragorn knew what duty he must maintain, but at the same time he told himself this, his heart broke. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat and turned to meet Legolas' eyes, begging silently for his friend to understand. "I am not abandoning you."

Legolas looked back to him, his eyes softening. "No, Estel, you are not," he said. "You are not abandoning me. You are the King of Gondor, and first her you must always defend. Go."

"Legolas," Aragorn whispered.

The agony in his friend's voice made Legolas' heart tighten. "Go, Estel. I am asking you to leave. Please."

Before the shame tearing at his heart could make him decide otherwise, Aragorn stepped back, his form disappearing into the shadows. Legolas closed his eyes as soon as he was gone, releasing his breath as the Easterling strode forward, peering down the hall, his bow still aimed at the Elf.

"Wait a moment," Darcyn said.

Legolas turned to him, his voice as cold as his eyes. "You have me. Now we will leave, and you will not return to this city again."

Raising an eyebrow, Darcyn regarded the other Elf. "We shall see," he said.

When a moment had passed, the Easterling looked to his leader once more and Darcyn gave a stiff nod, freeing him to close the distance between himself and Legolas and smash the side of his crossbow into the unprepared Elf's temple. Legolas crumpled silently to the ground.

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_Thank you for reading! Please drop a review my way; let me know what you thought!_


	7. Chapter 7

~.~.~

**Chapter Seven**

_"It must often be so, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them._"

_- Frodo Baggins_

~.~.~

Aragorn fought everything in his instincts that bid him to stay and wait in the shadow of the hall. He knew that it would do no good – following his foe was unreasonable, especially with the stakes placed on Legolas' life, and the King became ever more aware of the sounds of battle ensuing outside of the stone walls as the urgency of the previous situation grew older.

His heart hammered against his chest as he forced his feet to carry him down the hall. Elrond was already gone from his sight, as were Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen, and Aragorn did not doubt that they had returned to the King's House, for which he was grateful. His family had no need to become involved in the slaughter happening on his city's streets. But because it was that – his city; _his_ _people_ – Aragorn did uphold such a responsibility. He needed to get to his rooms. He needed his sword.

He needed to end this.

~.~.~

"I do not doubt that you will be joining the King on the front line." Elrond's words were followed immediately by the sound of wardrobe doors clanging open.

"You and Arwen will go to the cellars?" Elladan said by means of an answer as he strapped his quiver across his chest.

Before her father could say anything, Arwen stepped forwards, her arms folded tightly and her face full of anger. "I suppose that as Queen I have no choice but to hide among the bread and cheese."

"No, of course not." Elrohir swept past the Elleth and nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. "As our _sister_ you have no choice but to hide among the bread and cheese."

Arwen glared at him. Sighing, Elrond stepped forward and watched his sons finish arming themselves. "There is no readied plan," the Elf-lord said gravely. "You must help Aragorn hold against the Elves as best you can."

Elrohir's tone was firm, devoid of any emotion. "We will get rid of them."

"Careful, my son." Elrond studied Elrohir's eyes. "They are your kin. Do not initiate slaughter; try to stave it."

"This is not our fight," Arwen whispered furiously. "This is wrong."

"We fight for King Elessar." Elrond stood tall, cloaking his own anger, pulling around him the authority of the High Elf Lord that he was. "That means we defend Gondor. If need be, kill for her. But fight as peacefully as you can."

"How wrong does that sound," Elladan muttered under his breath. All four Elven hearts were bitter as the princes nodded short farewells to their father and sister before slipping silently from the room.

~.~.~

The White Court was roiling.

Aragorn's breath was almost stolen from him by the sight he was greeted with when he made his way into the courtyard. There were so many fighting forms; so many silver helms; so much long hair. Long forgotten was the hard work of the Dwarves and the Elves that had toiled to restore Minas Tirith after it suffered its many wounds of war. Everywhere he looked, blocking the stone-work of the walls and the white statues of valor, were Elves and Men locked in battle. Aragorn felt betrayal rise in the back of his throat in the form of bile when he depicted black hair as well as gold; the Elven kin and friends of Darcyn.

How had he done it? How had Darcyn convinced so many of the Firstborn to slaughter the people of Gondor? What dark things had the Elf promised them?

The sharp sound of dying screams reverberated to the King's core, shocking him from his horrified stupor. It also allowed him to see the Elf that had noticed him and was now charging towards him determinedly. Aragorn grabbed a dagger from his belt and threw it at the oncoming flurry of swinging knives and golden hair. His heart twisted violently as he watched the immortal being fall.

Quickly drawing his sword, Aragorn threw himself into the fight, joining a group of his soldiers, leaping into their midst. He swung his blade in wide arcs, felling Elves left and right; ducking to avoid his enemies' blades. He kept his teeth clenched tightly to hold his horror and revulsion at the knowledge of what he was doing at bay. He tried very hard not to focus on the beings he killed. On the beings trying to kill him. Iluvitar's chosen children.

It was not long before Aragorn's breath was coming in short gasps; the tell-tale signs of a worthy foe apparent. The Elves were not all valiant warriors – this he could tell. But the Firstborn do not have to be trained to have natural grace and resilience to fatigue. When the King began to allow himself to look at their faces – at the cold detachment in their eyes before he used all of the strength in his body and the skill of his training to slay them – he started to feel weak.

The King had been turned so that he now faced the Citadel. Glancing over the heads of the fighting beings between him and his palace, Aragorn's attention was caught when he suddenly saw – through swinging limbs and locked blades – the back of Darcyn, and in front of him, the Haradrim man dressed in Gondorian armor. Though, it was not them that drew his eyes for long. It was the limp figure in the Easterling's arms.

_Legolas_.

"Darcyn!" The shout tore from Aragorn's lips, but he didn't see if the Elf had heard his cry. Pain suddenly exploded in the back of his head and he stumbled forward, barely managing to keep ahold of his sword. Almost immediately he was supported by several arms of his Men, who surrounded him, holding him up. But their protection could not last forever. One by one, they were slain, no match for the deadly grace of the Elves' dance. Sucking in a sharp breath, Aragorn ignored the black spots dancing in his eyes and whirled, frantically grabbing the wrists of Elven hands that thrust a blade towards his head. It soon became obvious that his foe was stronger than him; much stronger; and, thinking quickly, Aragorn let his legs go suddenly lax and used his arms to stiffen and slide underneath the Elf's legs, flipping the warrior over as he did so. Twisting his sword hilt in his hand, Aragorn thrust it into the surprised Elf's stomach, gritting his teeth and standing quickly to avoid seeing the immortal life leave the being's eyes.

For a moment he was in a tiny bubble of calm. Aragorn looked all around him, turning this way and that, frantically, but Darcyn had disappeared. "You coward," the King hissed under his breath, rage broiling in his heart. And though most of it was directed at the Elf, much of it was directed at himself. He had believed Darcyn's empty promises. He had believed there was still a sliver of honor in his enemy. He had let them take his friend with little more than a protest. For naught. "You coward! Liar! _Darcyn_!"

"Darcyn!"

Aragorn started at what seemed to be an enraged echo of himself, but the voice was not his own. He had not to look long before he saw a flash of silver and black; a strong form that was Elrohir, sprinting from the bottom of the Citadel stairs towards the path that Darcyn had long since disappeared down. As he watched Elladan run after his twin, Aragorn prepared to follow; but suddenly something stayed him.

All around him lay the dead; Elves and Men. Aragorn stood frozen, looking at the tangled mass of Gondorian armor and long, braided hair. The sight left his heart no small amount of cold. His Men – all of them loyal, brave, and undeserving of their cruel deaths. They were fighting this fight for him because he wore a crown on his head. They had done nothing to bear such a burden of responsibility; to die for revenge that had been seeded long before he was their King. Raising his eyes, Aragorn looked around at the violence unfolding on all sides of him; watched as a Gondorian soldier to his right cried out, grabbing the spear that had run him through, falling to the ground, to his death. As an Elf to his left was shoved against the wall by five Men and stabbed unceasingly.

This battle should never have existed under the Valar's watchful eyes.

Gripping his sword hilt tightly, Aragorn raised his voice in an anguished, angry cry, throwing himself through an open space before him and taking of in a run after the sons of Elrond.

~.~.~

"Do you not know the meaning of the word 'stealth'?" Darcyn's voice was an irritated hiss as he turned back to his follower. The Elf knelt on the ground in the middle of the cove, ignoring the hardness and the coolness of the mountain rock underneath his knees. Currently his piercing eyes were fixed in a glare on the Haradrim that followed him. "Caution must be heeded to; how many times must I tell you this?"

"I'm sorry, he's just a load to carry," the man said, his voice almost a whine. He nudged the shoulder of the unconscious Prince of Greenwood that lay on the ground at his feet. "He's alive. I didn't mean to drop him."

Rolling his eyes, Darcyn turned away. "Take a short rest. We will move on soon."

"What are you doing?"

"A deed, mortal. No concern of yours. Stop wasting both yours and my time by asking such stupid questions." There was barely contained detestment in Darcyn's voice. He supposed it was because he was a bit tense, that he did not have a tight reign on his normally veiled disgust at the human race. After all, why _shouldn't_ he be tense? His heart was still singing with triumph, and excitement, and even a small amount of fear. He knew that they needed to move on. But he was pressing his luck, because he had simply too great of a chance to pass up.

Reaching into the folds of his cloak, Darcyn slowly drew out the vial of amber liquid. It was nothing special. Just a small, glass vessel, only half full. It looked like a pinprick of drink to soothe a frayed nerve; perhaps not even enough to do that.

But oh, how precious this vial was.

Darcyn's eyes shone with almost reverence as he gently set the glass on the ground. For a moment he simply gazed at it, the laughter bursting forth in his heart not escaping past his lips; before standing and turning back to his follower, who was looking at him with no small amount of confusion.

"You just leave it?"

"Yes."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"But, he–" Glancing down at the unconscious Elf at his feet, the Haradrim frowned. "He's the one who needs it. Why here? You will let him die?"

"I have more," Darcyn said simply.

"I see." Struggling to not look at his leader in a way that revealed how strange he thought he was, the Easterling bent down to grab Legolas and swing him back up into his arms with a grunt. "But why leave this here?"

"For them to find when they follow us."

"But they don't have him to cure."

Darcyn smiled, a malicious delight springing forth in his eyes. "Exactly. It will kill the King to know he has the cure but cannot use it; not knowing whether I'm letting the Elf-prince die. Or perhaps he will guess that I have more, but he will not know – and it will torture him."

"Will you cure him there? At the beacon?"

Once more looking at the vial, Darcyn waved a hand and said dismissively, "I have not decided yet. But no matter. We must leave; we do not have much time here." The man of Harad simply nodded, moving to follow him as he began to descend the smooth stone path leading down from the Hallow. "Thank you for bringing my vial, human." Darcyn hoped that his voice resembled some form of gratitude, though he doubted that it did.

The Haradrim at his side smiled smugly nonetheless and hoisted the Elf-prince farther up onto his shoulder. "To the beacon?"

"Aye, to the beacon."

~.~.~

"No."

_No. Let it not be._

"No."

_Please, no._

He couldn't breathe.

"Estel." Elrohir's voice was quiet. He stood next to Elladan at the edge of the mountain, eyes trained on the rigid lines of Aragorn's back. "Estel, _saes_. Get it, brother, we will take it to Elrond."

The King did not seem to hear him. He simply stood, frozen, staring at the small glass vial lying on the stone in the cove. So innocent; unassuming. Full of a substance that would save his closest friend's life. The liquid that he had pined for since reading Darcyn's letter, now right here, lying in front of him. He had but to reach out and take it.

_Legolas is gone._

It was as if the thought caused him physical pain, and Aragorn finally shuddered, bending over, using all of his strength to avoid clutching his stomach. His hands and back were soaked with sweat from the battle; his legs ached from the fervent run up the mountain. All for naught.

_Legolas is gone._

"Ai, Estel." Elladan stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on Aragorn's shoulder, intending to move past him and retrieve the vial. His touch roused the King. Aragorn started, and then pushed the Peredhil back, stumbling forward and lowering himself to his knees, reaching out a trembling hand towards the glass. He grasped it gently and pulled it up before his face, his eyes nothing less than accusing as he stared at it.

"…. and Faramir will send out riders after them."

Elrohir's murmured words broke through the haze in Aragorn's mind and he blinked, turning around to look at his brothers. "No."

They both glanced at him in surprise. "Estel, we need to know where they take him. You have swift riders and skilled soldiers. We can get him back."

"No." Curling his fingers around the vial, Aragorn stood and gazed at them seriously. "I need all of my Men. My city is under attack."

Heart twisting at the obvious sacrifice in the King's words, Elladan stepped towards him and said, "All right, Estel. All right. Let us return to the Citadel and get more news on the happenings. We will decide from there. What say you?"

Aragorn was almost surprised that he was able to move his numb lips to respond. "Yes."

~.~.~

The court was quiet when they returned. On cue, both Elves and the King slowed, coming around the side of the Citadel into the hushed yard. Littering the grass and the white stone were bodies of the dead: Elves, and Men; and beside them stood the Gondorian at silent attention. Faramir and Joln were by the fountain, speaking in hushed but quick tones. The Steward saw the King approaching first and immediately strode forward to meet him. "My lord, the enemy has retreated."

Aragorn's brow furrowed as he looked around at the disarray littering the courtyard. "Retreated?"

"They simply _left_, my King." Faramir's voice was almost breathless with excitement. "In the middle of the battle a dark-haired Elf climbed the fountain and blew a horn over the fight. And one by one, the Elves began to assemble, merging into groups large enough to protect each other. They defended, but they no longer attacked. Our Men did not know what to think. They all grouped together and then they fled. The soldiers followed them all throughout the city levels, but they never wielded another blow, unless one of the Men got too close to them. They left, my lord. Fleeing over the fields of Pelennor. They're gone, into the Grey Wood."

Aragorn's heart thundered in his chest as he turned to the sons of Elrond. Elladan and Elrohir gazed back at him with the same apprehensive confusion in their eyes.

Joln had stepped up beside Faramir and gave a short bow, his own armor stained with blood. "I did not think to send the Men after them. It was chaos. Already many of them were dying where they stood. I set a sufficient guard at the Gate and led the soldiers back here. We were awaiting your next orders, lord."

"You did well, Joln; I am glad you did not send them in pursuit," Aragorn said, grasping the Man's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. He then turned to Faramir, drawing in a deep breath and speaking slowly, "They will not have left completely… though it is not entirely impossible." Even as he said it, Aragorn's heart tightened painfully at the thought, knowing that Legolas would be bore away with them. "I have no guess better than another as to where they might gather and regroup. There could be more; there could be less. This could be the end of all of their attacks, or…" Looking once more to the grim faces of Elladan and Elrohir, Aragorn clenched his jaw. "Or it could be only the beginning. Whichever, we must prepare as if it is the latter. I do not want to be taken by surprise again."

"My Men are fewer in number than I am comfortable with," Joln said quietly, and even though Aragorn knew this to be true, the words still sent a spike of fear through his heart.

"Which is why I sent word to my Company," Faramir said. "Beregond and his Men will come swiftly. We are not alone, my lord."

Aragorn smiled faintly at his Steward. Guilt flitted across the King's mind; guilt at not being the first to take care of such an obvious deed as calling for help. He banished this thought as soon as it surfaced and shook himself, straightening his shoulders, meeting Faramir's clear eyes. "Thank you."

A slight smile crossed the Steward's lips.

"And now, Elessar?" Elladan stepped forward. Aragorn met his eyes, and so the Elf looked purposefully down at the blood on the Man's sleeve. "You are hardly fit for battle; you were not to begin with. You will do your people no good if you are weak from blood loss. Return to your Queen; Elrohir and I will help begin gathering the dead."

Gratitude shone brightly in Aragorn's tired eyes. "_Hannon le_, Elladan," he murmured.

The Peredhil nodded. Faramir opened his mouth, but closed it at the last moment, instead watching the King turn and began a slow trek up the Citadel steps.

"What of the enemy, my lord?" Joln asked.

Stopping, Aragorn turned back. He looked out over the bodies littering the High Court, his heart again twisting at the copper blood that ran over the white stones and green grass. He had to avert his eyes to still the churning in his stomach and said as loudly as he could, "Burn them."

And then he retreated into the palace as quickly as his weary legs would allow.

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_Thank you for reading. Please review. I love hearing from you. _


	8. Chapter 8

~.~.~

**Chapter Eight**

_"The enemy? His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. War will make corpses of us all."_

_- Faramir son of Denethor _

~.~.~

Sunlight flickered against the tiles of the floor, first this way, and then that. It was almost hypnotizing. Seated on the edge of the bed with his head resting in his hands, Aragorn watched the rays move to and fro. His clothes were fresh, his wound was bandaged, and his stomach was full.

_And Legolas was at the hands of a mad man._

Sucking in a sharp breath, Aragorn shook his head. The bed dipping ever so slightly aided in pulling him from his dark musings. Glancing up, the King gazed at Arwen, who now sat beside him. She watched him quietly in return.

"Estel," she finally said. Reaching out, she hesitated before running her fingers gently across his furrowed brow. Her eyes were full of sorrow. "I cannot stand to see such heartache on your face."

"It was all for naught," Aragorn whispered. He dared not look away from Arwen's eyes; he didn't know if he would be able to stay sane if he did. "I let them take him. I stood there and watched them leave. Watched them carry him away. Arwen," His voice tightened and he leaned towards her almost frantically. The Elleth moved forward as well, grasping his face in between her hands as he continued, "I believed him. And he killed my people."

"And you fought for them," Arwen murmured. She brushed her thumb over his lips when Aragorn closed his eyes, his face contorting in shame. "And your enemy fled. Your city is safe now, Estel. You lost Men. Yes, Estel, you lost them. But not all of them. They fought with fire because they now have a king to fight _for_. If you sit here on this bed, and stew in your self-inflicted guilt, and blame yourself for all of Darcyn's evils, you will go mad. You are much stronger than that, Estel. Show me. Show me that you are stronger than this."

For a moment Aragorn was silent. He stared into the Elleth's dark eyes, drawing from the calm hope he saw there. Something must have changed in his gaze, for Arwen smiled softly and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his forehead. "My beloved Elessar," she whispered.

Aragorn brought his mouth to hers and kissed her tenderly. "_A'maelamin_."

"_Amin mela lle_." Smiling, Arwen let the Man press his face against her neck before he reluctantly pulled away and stood from the bed, his steps unfaltering as he left the room.

Only after he was gone did the Queen let the unwavering mask of hope slip from her face, her own eyes filling with fear. She stood, making her way to the balcony and looking out over the High Court. As she drew her robes more tightly about her, Arwen reflected on her gratefulness that Aragorn had not noticed her ignorance of Legolas' deed. Her old friend had again taken the place of the Man she loved; like so many other times. And once more she was frightened that the Elf-prince may not be returned to them. Frightened that Aragorn's fate would be the same as his.

Because she knew. She knew what had happened that day, so many years ago. She knew that Darcyn had been utterly destroyed by his hate. She knew that Gondor was still at risk, that Legolas may not survive the day, that Aragorn's terror of such things was consuming him.

She knew that now, hope was hanging by the thinnest of threads.

And she knew that hope was all they had left.

~.~.~

A steady, dripping noise penetrated the fog that held Legolas' mind, prompting the Elf to wake, to open his eyes. For several moments he concentrated solely on doing just that; first one eye, and then the other.

He was met with the sight of a swooping stone ceiling: grey and grim.

As the rest of his body caught up with his mind, he began to feel the hardness of the ground underneath his sore limbs and the throbbing ache insistent in his left temple. Reaching up a trembling hand, Legolas touched the place of hurt and winced when the pain intensified. His fingers came away sticky with drying blood, and he stared at them as his memories flooded forth.

_The Easterling in Gondorian armor. Darcyn. Aragorn._

_Aragorn._

Legolas ignored the sharp protest his head gave and sat up swiftly. As his eyes frantically scanned every inch of the room he was in, he prayed with all of his might that Aragorn had not done something stupid like follow him and be taken as well. When a short search revealed no sign of the King, Legolas breathed his relief and let his head drop.

He was in a stone room. The ceiling, the ground, the walls; all stone. Not smooth, white stone as in Minas Tirith's palace, but grey, rough, crystalized stone. It had obviously been chiseled out to resemble some sort of a living space, but not with much detailed care. High along the walls there were brackets housing burning torches, though not many, and the light they gave off was dim. There were wooden crates everywhere, stacked and thrown against the walls. Slabs of rock that served as makeshift beds covered with old, tattered blankets were on his left, and on his right was a long wooden table, strewn with dishes and carven statues and many other useless objects. Something, however, caught his eye.

Spoons.

Taking a moment to gather his bearings, Legolas slowly raised himself to his feet, his gaze not leaving the pile of silverware. There were seven of them in total. It was obvious that no attention had been paid to them, for they were covered in a thick layer of dust. He could not quite say why, but Legolas had the sudden urge to hide one, and so he did. Grabbing one on the edge so as not to disturb the dust, he moved swiftly to several pots in the corner of the room.

He had no sooner straightened from concealing the spoon when he heard the unmistakable sounds of footsteps outside of the door, and the rattle of keys. Torchlight glinted weakly against the dark wood as the door was swung open, revealing five men with their faces swathed in black cloth.

They tried obviously to intimidate the Elf, holding their crude spears higher in the air and narrowing their dark eyes to slits as they glared at him. Legolas, however, did not even blink as they filed into the room. "So he sends you in packs," the Elf said, noticing how they kept at a cautious distance. "Is he worried one of you might not be enough to keep a watchful eye on me?"

"You are a dying animal." One on the left spoke in a halting voice, his words thick and harsh. Legolas' stomach dropped at the sinister undertones to the man's statement. "You are frightened. Fear gives strength."

A cold hand of dread had taken ahold of Legolas' throat, stilling the arrogant response he had been prepared to give. He became painfully aware of the discomfort simmering where it had since he had awoken for the first time; the fire, now mere embers, capable of roaring to life at any moment.

The Haradrim smiled underneath his mask. "Remember. Fear."

"Right now it is _you_ who are showing that you are afraid of _me_," Legolas said quietly.

"And so we were." It was one of the forms on the right who spoke next. "We were afraid. Afraid to come to you. But now that we are here, we are not. I am not." Boldly stepping forward, the Easterling studied the Elf-prince, his eyes full of arrogant complacency. "You are nothing but a pale shadow. I can see how weak you are, right now."

Somewhere in his heart he knew it inane, but Legolas' pride was stung by the mocking words. He automatically lifted his head higher and straightened his shoulders, glaring at the man. All of them laughed in response.

"Dying or no," the Elf said, "what do I do to benefit you or your master?"

"We have no master," one growled.

"Really?" Legolas latched on to the Haradrim's offense, turning towards him. "You are being ordered around like slave children. He tells you to follow him, and you follow him. He tells you to fight, and you fight. He tells you to come here, and here you stand."

"We do as the Fair One says because he will help us receive what we want," the man said angrily.

"And what do you want? One Elf dead?"

"The King of Gondor dead."

It was not an entirely unexpected answer. There had always been unfriendly relations with the Easterlings and the kingdom of Gondor. For many, many years it had been a battle to find a resemblance of peace between the two realms; and the alliance between Sauron and the Haradrim had done nothing to advocate that peace. But Aragorn had been trying hard to absolve those stiff relations and make treaty with the people of Harad. Therefore to hear this man speak such words with unveiled hate called forth Legolas' ire as well, and he glared at him. "You have no reason to wish ill upon King Elessar."

"He sits on Gondor's throne," the Haradrim declared. "He killed my people."

"He killed your people because they were allied with darkness!"

"What one man calls darkness, another may call a prospective new future." There was an unsettling quirk in the Easterling's reply, and Legolas watched him warily as he took several steps closer, his dark eyes glittering. "No matter. The Fair One is declaring war on Minas Tirith. We will fight with him to end the biting reign of Gondor. For some reason the Fair One wants you involved, though I can't see it."

The sharp, angry words flowed from Legolas' lips before he had chance to consider them. "I am involved because you dare threaten the King of Gondor."

The men of Harad laughed, and one shook his head, saying, "No. You are involved because the Fair One wants you to be. And because Elessar gave you to us."

"It's not going to work," Legolas said, his voice low and his heart pounding. He could feel a familiar, persistent ache beginning in his stomach, and though it was cool in the stone room, a sweat had broken out over his brow. He clenched his teeth against the rising pain and glared at the Easterling, doing his best to focus on his anger instead of his ailment. "First Darcyn, and now you, making fools of yourself; trying to turn me against him. It is wasted effort."

"Whatever the matter." Smirking, the Haradrim gazed at him knowingly. "Feeling weak, prince? Would you like some water? Or perhaps something a bit stronger, yes? An antidote that be. Ah, yes, you're missing it, aren't you?"

It was becoming harder to breathe. Gritting his teeth, Legolas stepped back and felt along the wall behind him, leaning against it for support, his stomach burning. Film began to build in his throat, weakening the blow of his words. "Curse you. I only find satisfaction knowing that you will all die trying to obtain your goals. All of you."

Annoyance darkened the man's eyes and he grasped his spear firmly, rushing forward, shoving the tip of it under Legolas' chin and forcing the Elf's head back. Legolas merely glared at him, gasping, "What are you going to do? Kill me? I am already dying."

"Aye." Staring at him for several more tense moments, the Haradrim pushed his spear-tip deeper into the Elf's skin, electing a small rivulet of blood. "Aye. You are. You are dying. We only came to make sure this was so." There was not even a sliver of warning before the Easterling brought a knee up into Legolas' stomach. And though normally such a blow would barely unsettle the Elf-prince; this hour it unleashed a torrent of agony from the poison already ravaging inside of him, and Legolas was too stunned to even cry out. He collapsed helplessly to the ground at the Haradrim's feet, blood beginning a steady trickle from his nose.

The captor stepped back, his mask concealing his pleased smile. "And to make sure you remember it."

~.~.~

After leaving Arwen, Aragorn made his way to the throne room, hoping that there he might find Faramir. The hall was the fullest it had been since he had taken up reign of Gondor; everywhere there were soldiers milling about, talking animatedly, inspecting weapons, pouring over maps. The King was even more pleased when instead of his Steward he saw Haythalm – second in command to Master Joln and a Man that Aragorn trusted more than most – surrounded by several of the younger soldiers. He was giving short, jerking motions with his hands as he laid out some plan of action. Stopping several feet away, Aragorn clasped his hands behind his back and stood quietly to wait.

When most of the soldiers had moved their eyes from the captain to their King, Haythalm finally noticed their distraction. He turned, his calculating eyes taking in the other Man's exhausted profile in one glance. "My lord."

"Haythalm." Aragorn nodded. "May I have a word?"

"Of course." Dismissing his Men, Haythalm let Aragorn take him lightly by the arm and walk him towards the corner of the throne room, away from the others.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Aragorn asked.

Haythalm gave a small smile. "First and foremost: how are you?"

Returning the grin, Aragorn was surprised he found his heart lighten enough to have the urge to roll his eyes. He had always been fond of the Gondorian; he knew that Haythalm had a heart of gold and a feisty spirit. Not only was Haythalm a guard that he trusted – he was also a friend. "_Hannon le_, Haythalm; I am right enough, though I've been better."

Haythalm chuckled half-heartedly. "I think we _all_ have been, my lord."

It was not long before the momentary diversion of amusement faded, and Aragorn sighed, the somberness of their present circumstances settling over him again like a blanket. Haythalm noticed and blew out his breath as well, putting a hand on the King's shoulder. "I do not have any questions about our assignments. The gate has never been as guarded as it is now, and we are making sure that no unfortunate peasants have enough time to settle on the fields of Pelennor. The levels of the city are heavily armed. We're keeping a close eye on the trees, and I sent Anim out not long ago with a scout to take a closer look of the forest. Everyone is ready, my lord. But it is quiet."

The words were reassuring, and Aragorn felt somewhat heartened by the confidence in Haythalm's voice. "Has Beregond's company arrived yet?"

"They are here, yes. Faramir is with them in the first level. I believe they wanted to go out shortly after Anim, but I convinced them to wait until you had time to speak with them."

"Thank you, Haythalm." Aragorn smiled briefly at the other Man, his eyes absently watching the soldiers as they practiced sword moves and did their best to rally one another. Nerves swirled almost papally around the hall. There hadn't yet been another attack, but that did not serve as any type of balm for the fear and anticipation that all of Gondor felt.

Only several peasants had lost their lives when Darcyn's army had made their way unchecked through the city – the Elf's spiteful threats had been hollow. The slaughter had not begun until they reached the courtyard. And yet the townsfolk were terrified. Many of them had left their homes and gathered together in emergency bunkers closer to the heart of the mountain; some had even gone so far as to bring their families to the Citadel, though they were sent to lesser housing by gentle hands. Everyone was wary – but that only meant that everyone was ready.

Haythalm studied his King for several moments in silence, before drawing in a deep breath. "My lord." He waited until Aragorn met his eyes, focusing on him. "There is something I have wanted to tell you since you received the letter, but I didn't want to intrude on your affairs. Lord Elrond has been advising Faramir and I to let you decide what to do, and so I have. But I'm afraid I've let something slip."

Folding his arms over his chest, Aragorn nodded kindly to the commander. "What is it?"

"Lord Faramir asked me where Cordil had been stationed just before the attacker turned himself in. I never had the chance to answer, and it slipped from my mind. Lord Faramir acted as if it was important, and I didn't know if you thought so as well."

"Do _you_ think it is important?" Aragorn asked.

Haythalm narrowed his eyes at him. "Well, I already said that _Faramir–_"

"I didn't ask about Faramir."

"As your Steward, his–"

"Haythalm, no. Do not make me go there again."

"Go where?"

"To the matter of opinions. Yours is treasured in my eyes; I just think you like hearing me say that, which is why you continue topretend you don't hear it."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

Aragorn merely rose an eyebrow.

"Pardon." Haythalm cleared his throat, wiping a hand across his mouth to cover a chuckle. "Of course not my lord, I am sorry. My hearing just isn't what it once was."

"Haythalm."

"Mmm?"

"Captain."

"My lord."

"Is that Faramir I see?"

"All right, my lord." Haythalm laughed, putting out his hands to stop Aragorn from moving away. The King grinned at him. "I couldn't help myself. I honestly do not know if it is – but Faramir was intent on knowing it. Cordil had been stationed at the beacon tower."

The amusement vanished instantly from Aragorn's face, his eyes sobering. "The beacon?"

"Yes. Amon Dîn."

"There are Men at the beacon?"

"I sent several there following your coronation. I knew it was improbable that the beacons be needed in the near future, but I thought they should at least be kept after. I only spared several Men, no more than ten. Cordil was one of them."

"They were as close as the beacon." Aragorn's voice was stiff. He turned, almost as if in a daze, his eyes wide as he stared at the soldiers. "They're _that close_. All this time. The beacon."

"My lord." Haythalm stepped in front of his frozen King again, trying to re-direct his attention. "Do not tell me you're letting such a foolish hope bring up your spirits. You'll only be disappointed, Aragorn. They would not possibly have stayed there."

"And how do you know?" Aragorn demanded, his eyes suddenly sharp. "It is a perfect place – don't you see? We would never have thought to look there! We would have passed right over them had we sent out scouts to look; it's per-"

"My lord, no army could fit inside of a beacon tower," Haythalm said firmly. "Perhaps seventy men at most – not an army."

"Darcyn has never been truthful, Haythalm; just because he said that he has an army doesn't mean that he does."

"My lord…"

"You saw how many Elves invaded the city." For some reason, Aragorn felt a desperation to convince the commander to put himself in the mindset that he himself was in. He grasped Haythalm's shoulders, staring at him earnestly. "There were only a hundred at most. Not an army. And not even all of them left with their lives."

"What about the Easterlings?" Haythalm asked skeptically. "The ones who disguised themselves in our armor? Do you honestly believe that they were the only ones he has following him out there?"

Aragorn waved a hand dismissively, his frustration evident. "Perhaps not – but there cannot be that many! Darcyn hates the Edain, no matter what country they hail from; he wouldn't put up with an army of them even to accomplish this scheme."

Haythalm was silent.

Taking this as a sign that his words were getting through, Aragorn softened his voice. "He once more has taken advantage of my weakness, Haythalm. I should have immediately sent out scouts, as soon as I had the chance."

"He prevented you from doing that with the most cowardly threat he could have given, my lord," the commander said quietly.

Aragorn's heart tightened, but he gave a sharp nod of his head and continued. "Perhaps you're right – perhaps it was wise of me not to do so, but if what I'm thinking is true, we can end this, Haythalm. Soon. You said you sent Anim to scout the forest? Which forest?"

"I told him only to go into the midst of the Grey Wood."

"They must go farther." Setting his jaw, Aragorn released Haythalm and turned to the soldiers. Resolve was settling like a firm rock in his heart, anchoring him, balancing him; giving his mind something to grasp and focus on. "All the way through, to the edge. Look to the beacon tower. Druadan Forest could be their hiding place as well; if we're going to be wary of an army, more trees would be the perfect place to conceal it."

Haythalm's eyes were still wary, but he listened to Aragorn's determined directions without further interruption or contest. He could see no point in arguing with him – the King's gaze and voice were unyielding. The commander had seen that look on him in the past; right before Aragorn had forced him to promise never to bow to him upon sight again. When the King of Gondor wanted something: it was his. He had the uncanny ability to coax conclusions out of almost anyone or anything.

But there was still one thing that bothered him. Noticing that Aragorn was on the verge of striding away, Haythalm reached out and pulled him back, grasping both of the King's shoulders and looking him in the eye as he said firmly, "My lord, every Man that we send out across those fields and into those trees is one less Man here in the city. You must be undoubtedly sure of what you want before you give these orders, because once those soldiers are gone, they may not come back."

For a moment Aragorn was quiet. Averting his gaze, he murmured, "We do not have to send many."

"If you're planning to meet a potential army, Aragorn, you cannot send few."

"Ai." Sighing in frustration, Aragorn ran a hand through his hair and glared at the ground. "How do I choose?"

Haythalm sighed as well. "You must choose for yourself, my lord. Your Men will follow your orders, no matter where they lead them. _I_ will follow them. I will personally ride to the beacon myself if you ask me to."

The words made emotion catch in Aragorn's throat. "_Hannon le_."

Smiling, Haythalm nodded. "If you believe Legolas is at the beacon… then lord, we will go. To bring him back."

"_My lord_!"

Both the King and commander turned in alarm when the shout rang into the throne room. All but sprinting down the hall, Aragorn met a panting watch-guard with Haythalm right at his heels. The Gondorian's eyes were wild. "They are coming."

Aragorn's heart plummeted at the words. "How many?"

"More." Clenching his jaw, the guard tightened his grip on his spear and stared somberly into the King's eyes. "Many, many more."

~.~.~

**TBC.**

_Thank you for reading my friends! Also, thank you to those favoriting and following my story! Please, drop me a review to tell me what you like/don't like/have thoughts on! The smallest review can mean so much to the writers._


	9. Chapter 9

~.~.~

**Chapter Nine **

_"The world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."_

_- Warden_

~.~.~

"You are insane. Have I ever told you that you're insane?"

"Yes."

"You are _insane_."

"Elladan, if you don't choose to stop repeating that word soon, I am going to literally pummel you."

"That is because _you are insane_."

Sighing, Elrohir let his head fall back against the soft earth underneath him and rolled his eyes. "For an immortal being, you are the most impatient person I know."

"I am _not_ impatient."

"When you're impatient, your mouth runs."

"Elrohir, if you were laying face down under a bush, you'd want to talk to keep yourself company too."

"But my dear brother, I am laying face _up_ under a bush, so we differ little."

"And I repeat: _why_ would we lay underneath bushes at all, brother?"

"I told you, I had a plan."

"If this is how your plan begins, I really don't think I want to be involved. You are lucky we weren't caught. Correction; it was sheer _impossibility_ that we weren't caught."

"Obviously it _is_ possible, because we weren't!"

"I half wish we _had_ been so it could prove how _insane_ you are!"

"I've heard enough." Gritting his teeth in irritation, Elrohir rolled out from underneath the bush and rose into a graceful crouch, his keen gaze darting around the forest surrounding them. They were not far off from the beaten path, and the Peredhil almost scoffed at the notion that it truly was a wonder that they had been overlooked. However, he would never admit this to his brother, who had joined him and stood at his side, gazing down at him with a raised eyebrow.

When Elrohir glanced up at his twin, Elladan smirked. "I think now would be an appropriate time for me to say I–"

"No." Standing swiftly, Elrohir brushed invisible dirt from his tunic and shook his head. "If I were you, I wouldn't. I am quite on edge and would not be responsible for any rash actions I might commit against you."

"Are you threatening me, brother?"

"Yes."

"Point well taken."

Sighing, Elrohir walked to the middle of the path and stared into the trees stretching in front of him. He could no longer see the army nor feel the movements of their march on the forest floor. It meant that Darcyn and his followers had traveled far – which also meant that he and his twin had been hiding for quite a long time. The army had been walking almost leisurely, oblivious to the two Elf princes lying under bushes as they were passing by.

That morning Haythalm had assigned Anim to take a scout into the Grey Wood. Fortunately, Elladan and Elrohir were nearby and immediately stepped in, saying that they wished to go as well. Their request was granted, and they brought up the end of a twenty-seven man Gondorian scout who set out from the White City not long after dawn.

Not even a quarter of the way through the Grey Wood, they had met the army.

Thankfully, the sons of Elrond heard them long before they were in sight, and were therefore able to call out warnings to Anim. The scout leader had turned his steed in a sharp circle and shouted for his Men to retreat. It didn't take much prodding. Despite Anim's calls of '_do not fear!_' and '_ride orderly!_', the soldiers erupted into a panic, which did not do much to help their horses, who sensed their riders' fear and all at once bolted in the other direction. In the midst of the dust raised by their hooves and the distraction of the Men, Elrohir was struck by sudden inspiration – or rather, a sudden impulse, upon which he acted. Motioning for Elladan to follow, he led his horse behind a cluster of trees well off of the path and slipped from the saddle. Ignoring the confused and alarmed look his brother shot his way, he merely dropped to the ground and slid underneath a bush. He blended in entirely. With little choice otherwise – but cursing the entire time – Elladan followed suit.

And then they waited.

Hundreds of feet marched by, both Elven and mortal alike. It took clenched fists and strong self-control for both the sons of Elrond to stay still and silent when they watched, through twigs and leaves, Darcyn stride along leisurely at the front of his followers. His walk was full of arrogance. In a scabbard at his belt there was a longsword, barely concealed by the black cloak he wore. The Haradrim came next; hundreds of them it seemed, shuffling along and mumbling to each other or keeping their eyes fixed on the back of Darcyn. Most of them looked hardened; full of battle scars and clothed in the armor of their people. Behind them were the Elves. Both blonde and raven haired, they were as starkly different from the men as the sun is from the moon. But these Elves were not like the kin of light – they were almost wraith-like, slender and solemn, with cold eyes and grim mouths.

Anim's scout had disappeared long before Darcyn first passed by the hiding place of Elladan and Elrohir, aided by their horses. The army merely continued to march on after them. Elladan even caught a glimpse of a slow, smug smile on Darcyn's face as he watched the soldiers ride frantically away.

For a long while the twins had lain in silence under the bushes. Elladan; silent because he had no idea what possibly could have been running through his brother's mind. And Elrohir; silent because of what _was_.

And then Elladan had started to complain.

As the previously interrupted silence of the forest fell once more like a blanket, the two Elves stood unmoving in the middle of the path. Neither of them spoke again for a long while. Until Elladan's curiosity got the better of him, upon which he cleared his throat and asked, "What now, brother?"

"I... I don't know." Sighing again, Elrohir turned and met Elladan's eyes. "When I saw them, I thought perhaps... perhaps we had a chance. Perhaps we had the opportunity to take him by surprise, to..."

When Elrohir's voice trailed off, Elladan stepped forward and grasped his brother's shoulder. His eyes had softened in understanding; he knew exactly what his twin was trying to say. "I understand, Elrohir. I am angry as well. If we could have gotten him alone... I wanted it too."

"The hate I feel for him worries me," Elrohir said quietly. "And it's wearying, Elladan. So wearying. I've never forgiven him for... We almost lost Estel. And look what _that_ did to our hearts. And then Arwen; he dare try to take her too? Now what he has done to Aragorn – even more so, he's taken Legolas and it... Estel does not deserve this, Elladan. He doesn't deserve it." There was the slightest tremor in the Peredhil's voice and he turned away. For awhile he gazed silently into the trees, his fair face grave and devoid of its usual joy. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "I wanted to take him. I wanted to drag him from his army and make him pay for what he's done. I wanted to know if Legolas was alive or dead, but more than that I–" Stopping for a moment, Elrohir stood rigidly. "I wanted to kill him."

"And there's no guilt to be felt in that," Elladan murmured. "He's threatened you. He's threatened our family. He's tried to _kill_ them. He's taken our friend. He's marching to unleash war, right at this very moment. Elrohir, he _deserves_ to die."

Elrohir had turned swiftly in the midst of his brother's comforting and was now staring at him in alarm. "We must go – the war, I hadn't thought of... Valar, a fool I am!"

Noticing that Elrohir's eyes were now clear, Elladan felt his heart relax with relief. He grinned. "See, now _this_ is what I mean when I say that you live on impulse, dear brother."

"Don't start with me, Elladan. Call your horse."

"My horse?"

Elrohir was in the process of mounting his own steed and turned back to look at his brother over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, your horse. He's no longer here. Perhaps you need to learn to be a little more observant."

"Well, how long has he been gone?" Elladan turned in a full circle and interrupted Elrohir's answer by whistling loudly. They both were silent for a moment, listening intently for any sound, but none came. The forest was still and quiet.

Already seated on his horse, Elrohir shook his head. "Perfect."

"Patience, brother." Elladan waved a dismissive hand at him and then called, "_Roch_, _tula_! _Roch_!"

Elrohir couldn't help but chuckle at the frustration that became evident in his brother's rising voice. "Ride with me, Elladan. He's not coming back."

Elladan merely looked at him in annoyance, continuing to whistle. "Oh, yes he is, if he knows what's good for him!"

"I do not think he much cares." Elladan laughed again when Elrohir shouted an expletive at the non-existent horse. "Enough, brother, you'll alert all of Gondor if you continue like that! Ride with me."

Relenting, Elladan glowered at nothing in particular as he mounted behind his twin, mumbling under his breath. "'Very trusty steeds Lord Elladan; our most hardy.' Oh, yes, Haythalm, quite hardy indeed! I am going to kill that Man."

"Give him a break, Elladan." Elrohir chuckled as he spurred his horse towards the path. "Estel quite likes him; I would think it wise to try to befriend him as well."

"Have I ever taken into consideration what Estel thinks when determining who I like or do not like?"

"Well, you quite liked Gimli..."

"_Antolle ulua sulrim._"

Clear Elven laughter rippled through the trees.

~.~.~

Anim was still trying to catch his breath.

The frantic horse-ride across the fields of Pelennor had not been a comfortable one, and along with the terror that had clutched his chest in a vice-like grip, it had succeeded in sucking all of the breath from him completely. No sooner had the Great Gates been shut behind he and his company did King Elessar come flying down the street, flanked by Haythalm and the King's personal guard. Swift, angry words were exchanged between Aragorn and Faramir, before the King began to pace. He paced unceasingly, and Anim knew that he was waiting. He also knew what the King was waiting _for_.

The black Elf, and his army.

A hush had long since fallen over the courtyard. All of the soldiers were still and quiet. Anim stood in front of those that had been assigned to him, breathing deeply, regaining his wits. They all watched as Aragorn eventually made his way to the Great Gates and stopped directly in front of them.

The silence carried on. As it did, Anim pictured in his mind the rough faces of the Haradrim, mixed in with the Elves. It had been an unsettling sight, the army.

"Elessar!"

The shout made every Man in armor jump. A rattle swept through the courtyard, but no one said a word.

"_Elessar_!"

Said King was numb. He stood in front of the crevice in between the gates, his nose almost touching the smooth mithril and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could not see Darcyn through the powerful stone, but it was as if he could almost _feel _him; feel the hatred and the arrogance radiating off of the Elf. It was also apparent in Darcyn's voice as he continued, shouting through the barrier, "I know you stand there, Elessar. I can sense you. I can sense your fear, and your anger. Quite an impossible choice you're facing, is it not?"

_Choice? Nay._

"Please tell me that you understand my proposition. Did you see the cart in the midst of my soldiers? Wooden; pulled by ropes, on wheels?"

Glancing over his shoulder at Faramir, Aragorn furrowed his brow. The Steward's face was white.

"I am sure it was seen by at least one of your Men; your sentries. It was near the back."

"_Faramir_," Aragorn murmured. "Was there a cart?"

The Steward's breath had become shallow. Yes, he had been told of the cart. He also knew what voicing the answer to the question would mean – and he knew that Gondor could very well be teetering on the brink of downfall. Its new King had a heart of gold; but it was a heart that held those he loved as the things that must be the most vitally protected. For the first time since he saw the crown upon King Elessar's head, Faramir felt a betraying shiver of doubt crawl up his spine.

If Darcyn's words were a literal threat, Faramir knew that the cart was not empty.

"Faramir! Was ther-"

"Elessar!" Darcyn's voice had grown irritated, losing some of the honey that had been coating it. "If I can reach you with my words, than you can reach me with yours. I expect an answer!"

"Yes!" The explosion of anger came from several rows back in the crowd of soldiers. They all watched in surprise as an infuriated Haythalm pushed through them, glaring at the Gate as if he could knock it down with his eyes. "Yes, there was a cart, you coward!"

"The voice is not yours, Elessar!" They could only just hear Darcyn's laughter. "Whoever you are, I thank you, simpleton. Yes, now we have established that there is a cart."

Aragorn suddenly found it very hard to breathe. "Darcyn," he rasped, but the word was too quiet to be heard.

"It is not empty, pretty king," Darcyn continued obliviously. "You can guess what is inside. I want entrance to your city. It is not too difficult a thing to ask. But I had assumed that your answer would be an adamant 'no', as it just ran across your mind a moment ago. I implore you to think long and hard, now. You have a choice. Your beloved friend is along for the ride, you see; the cart isn't the most spacious form of travel, but at least he did not have to walk. The poison is weakening him quickly; you do not have to thank me for my consideration."

Aragorn's chest heaved against the fury that seemed to be papally pressing against it.

"He's simply waiting, Elessar, along with the rest of us. I will make you a promise. If you open this gate, and come out to me, _alone_, we can exchange. The cart will go inside the city. You do realize how wonderful that would be, don't you? For you have the cure that he needs! He would recover, and he, the Prince of Greenwood, would live."

From somewhere, down in the deepest pools of his strength, Aragorn was able to pull a loud enough shout for the Elf to hear. "And my people?"

"I do not care about your people."

"Why bring an army?" Aragorn demanded. "What purpose would they serve other than to sac Minas Tirith?"

"Call it an intimidation factor." Darcyn's voice was wry. "Do not make this more difficult than it is. I will stay them if you agree to my terms."

His fists clenched even tighter, numbing his fingers. "You wish for me to walk out to you? Just like that? On the honor of your _word_?"

"Yes."

"You do not have honesty anywhere within your heart, Darcyn. Not anymore. I don't believe that you will not harm us."

"Oh, no." Darcyn laughed. "I have never once said that I will not harm _you_. You, Elessar; you will die."

Beregond put out a swift hand when Faramir stepped forward.

"I am not going to lie. I will kill you, and I; you; everyone – we all know it."

Half of the platoon of soldiers standing in the courtyard now held weapons hanging from lax hands. When they had been called to arms moments before, assembling stiffly and boldly as their King joined them on the first level, not many of them had felt true fear. Their hope was as blazing as the mithril gates that they knew would guard them from the blood-thirsty army waiting on the other side. Therefore they had stood proudly and unafraid, undaunted by the odds against them – whereas they were no more than a hundred, their waiting enemy was more than thrice as much. But they were not afraid. Their city would protect them, of that they had been sure.

It had all changed now.

One glance at the slumped form of their King dashed the hope in their hearts. He leaned his full weight upon the gates, his hands sprawled across their surface and his forehead pressed to the stone. Gone was the proud, tall, confident lord they had all come to know. He was simply a Man; a broken Man; with an impossible choice laid in front of him and one that was tearing his heart to shreds.

"I can't, Legolas," Aragorn whispered, shaking his head against the cold mithril. "I can't."

"Elessar."

Aragorn started at the voice that suddenly seemed not mere inches away. He knew it was impossible, but Darcyn's sinister whisper sounded as if it was spoken _through_ the gates.

"Make your choice."

"How dare you do this." The King's voice trembled with anger and with grief. "You have no right. Legolas is _innocent_. He has done _nothing_."

"But _you have_." Fury burst forth into Darcyn's voice; blatant hatred that soiled the naturally fair tone he possessed. "You know what you did. You know the life that you took. You will never, _never_ be out of the reach of retribution, and your punishment is coming in the terms that you committed your own crimes. You took my loved one from me."

His shaking had stopped. Where once tremors of anger had racked his frame, now a frozen cold had enveloped him. Aragorn's despair was so potent that it dried his tears before they could even reach his eyes.

"And so now I will take yours."

There was nothing he could do. Even though his heart shattered – it reached desperately out to him; imploring only that he _save Legolas_ – Aragorn merely slumped against the gates and let the pain of Darcyn's words wash over him bitterly. Gondor needed her king to stand for her, and so stand he shall. He raised his voice, shouting his anger and guilt and defeat in the form of refusal. "You will not enter Minas Tirith!"

A collective sigh of relief ran through the company of soldiers. There was the clinking of armor and weapons as spears drooped, Men clasped shoulders, and swords were re-sheathed. Faramir's breath rushed out of him in a wave. Haythalm turned and glanced at the Steward, his eyes full of sorrow. The captains hesitated, torn between the duty to attend to their lord and the wish to give him a moment's solitude.

Darcyn solved their indecision. His voice was thunderous and authoritative as he cried, "_Sii! Gurth gothrimlye! Ndnengina_!"

Haythalm did not know the Elvish language fluently. But he had learned common words – common words concerning military commands, on behalf of the new King and the new age. He did not understand the entirety of Darcyn's order, but his heart stopped when he clearly heard the words: 'Kill! Death! _Now!'_

Chaos erupted. The outer ring of soldiers broke away from their fellows – ten of them, no more – and began a frenzied sprint for the gates. Many of the Gondorians had re-sheathed their swords, and now found themselves watching in confusion as their comrades began running for what seemed their lives.

Faramir was not so easily fooled. Betrayal seemed to run as thick as blood in the White City's streets, and as soon as he saw these men break away from the rest he knew that the supposed soldiers were not of Gondor. His feet catapulted him into action; he shouted for Beregond and lurched forwards, grabbing Aragorn's arm and yanking him away, towards the buildings. The Steward's heart was in his throat, and for a sinking moment he feared that they would be overrun, and his King slain. But to his relief – as well as his confusion – the traitors ignored them altogether. It was only after Faramir had shoved a protesting Aragorn into the closest inn that he realized that they had been making for the gates.

There came a guttural cry, "Fair one, now; _now_!"

Faramir's concealment attempts were futile. When he ran back out onto the street, he felt Aragorn sprint past him, and the Steward had the slightest urge to roll his eyes at the Man's stubbornness. _Dratted King!_

Darcyn's heart sang when the Great Gates inched open, revealing the forms of the men dressed in Gondorian armor. He surged forward; motioning for his army to follow; and met the eyes of the first Easterling. There was no warmth in the Elf's gaze, but he uttered several words that seemed heartfelt. "Well done."

And then he passed under the entrance to the city, raising his longsword and stepping aside to let his followers go before him, swarming into the courtyard as a continuous stream. Eyes glittering, Darcyn watched triumphantly from the shadows of the gate-arch.

"Haythalm, more Men!" Aragorn shouted. His heart was thundering in his chest as he drew his sword, running for the gates, horrified at the enemy that was pouring in through them. The commander; who was closest to the gate; had managed to kill all of the traitors, but it was little more than a dent to the horde. "We need more Men!"

Haythalm heard the King's cries and turned back to the Gondorian soldiers. Most of them still stood frozen in shock, bewildered by the rapid turn in events, but at the sight of the enemy and of their captain running towards them and screaming for them to fight, they leapt into action. Drawing their swords, they charged forward to meet the enemy.

Faramir was shouting frantically for Beregond, who was fighting alongside Anim and moving to push the enemy back towards the gates. The Steward's captain ignored his calls, focused on the fight; and Faramir gave up his efforts and followed Aragorn. The King had not hesitated in joining in, and they could all see that he was making his way to Haythalm.

"Send a messenger!" Aragorn yelled. The commander glanced at him briefly and then turned, putting two fingers in his mouth with his free hand and giving a sharp whistle. It brought two young Men to his side from the throng and Haythalm whispered furiously into their ears before shoving them towards the inn. Unnoticed and ignored, the soldiers slipped inside and disappeared from sight. When they were gone Haythalm met Aragorn's eyes and nodded once. The King returned it.

And then whirled sharply to parry a blow from a Gondorian blade meant to pierce his heart.

It had begun.

~.~.~

**TBC**.

**_Literal Elvish translations:_**

_"Roch, tula! Roch!" —_ '_Horse, come! Horse!'_

_"Antolle ulua sulrim." — '__Much wind pours from your mouth.'_

_"Sii! Gurth gothrimlye! Ndnengina!" — '__Now! Death to our foes! Kill!'_

_~.~.~_

_**A/N**__: Thank you to all my readers and reviewers! (including those without accounts, __**Guest**__: thank you very much for your kind words! I am glad you are thrilled, indeed! I hope you continue to enjoy it!, And __**ShadowHawq35**__: Oh my friend, reading your reviews gave me a good laugh! I loved how intensely you were feeling what was happening; I'm so grateful you let me know you were enjoying it!) You are all wonderful people and I love hearing from you while we embark on this story. I hope you enjoyed Chapter 9. :-)_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's**__**Note**__: Thank you everyone, for your wonderful reviews. I love knowing people are along with me for the ride. Here's the next chapter – I hope you enjoy. _

~.~.~

**Chapter Ten**

_"The Men of Minas Tirith will never be overcome."_

_- Bergil_

~.~.~

When his finger pressed too tightly against the wooden shaft for what seemed the millionth time, Legolas cursed loudly and put his throbbing finger in his mouth. How on Arda could one measly little fragment of wood cause so much pain? It was a _splinter_, for Eru's sake! Out of all of the things wrong with his body, a splinter was momentarily giving him the most trouble.

Sighing after sucking on his finger for a few moments, Legolas again grasped the stick and raked the spoon against it, shaving off another coil of wood. It dropped to join the hundreds of others on the floor. After several more times, the Elf put the silverware down and appraised his work of art. The tip of the stick had been honed to a deadly looking point. Standing, Legolas grasped the spear in his hand and whirled on the spot, striking out violently at the molding table. A small chunk of its leg snapped off and hit the wall with a satisfactory '_clunk_'.

Nodding and feeling quite pleased with himself, Legolas lowered the spear and took a moment to stand in silence. He considered going over his plan, but dismissed the thought. 'The plan' – if it could even be called that – was in reality a desperate attempt at doing _something_ to try to escape. He had been sitting in the room for too long, and too often had his thoughts drifted to what could be happening in Minas Tirith while he sat there, trapped.

Every several hours or so, an Easterling would come to check on him. And every time this had happened so far, Legolas was lying in the corner, weakened by the pain coursing through every part of his body. The Haradrim would merely laugh at him – sometimes prod him with his spear – and then leave. Once he was brought water. Despite the fear that continually rose in his heart at the thought, Legolas knew that they were waiting for him to die.

During the times that he was alone, Legolas moved around the room, examining every inch of it. Eventually his efforts were rewarded. Underneath a tumble of crates, he found a pair of wooden doors in the ground. Of course, they were locked, and Legolas could have shouted in frustration, had he not remembered the spoon that he had hidden long before. The others had been confiscated during one of the times the Easterling on duty was securing the room.

After grueling hours of prying and prodding – careful work, for Legolas knew that if he pushed too far the spoon could very well break – the doors finally opened. And what he found inside was more thrilling to him than mounds of gold. It was a small cove, delved into the dirt ground, and inside was packed rows of logs and tinder and strong sticks. They were all dry and well-kept. He even found a canteen of oil. As he laid there, gazing at his newfound discovery, a sudden idea popped into Legolas' mind. A look at the torch bracketed high up on the wall cemented his plan.

He waited for awhile. And just as he'd predicted, not long after he had re-closed the doors and covered them, the Easterling opened the door to do his routine check. The man walked to where the Elf lay in a new corner and nudged him with a booted foot, muttering something in his native tongue that Legolas did not understand. And then he left once more.

As soon as he was gone, Legolas threw open the doors and set to work. He stacked logs along every wall of the room, putting more of them closer to where there were crates and tables. After this was finished, he scattered tinder among the logs, and followed this with the oil, careful to ration it and wet every single morsel of wood. He even had some leftover, of which he emptied closer to the back of the room. Throwing the empty carton in the corner, Legolas then took one of the sticks and set to sharpening it to his liking.

There was not time to wait too long, now. Shaking himself once more into action, Legolas clamped his spear under his armpit, put the spoon between his teeth, and grasped the ragged edges of the stone of the wall. Ignoring the pain his splintered finger gave, he began to climb.

~.~.~

Elladan froze the instant that he felt his twin do the same. "Valar," the Elf breathed.

Rigid, Elrohir reigned the horse to a sudden halt on the grass of Pelennor and stared at the archway of Minas Tirith's first wall. The gate was open. Inside he could see the fighting forms that filled the courtyard; hundreds of them. He could just barely make out the black headdresses that shrouded some, and the silver helmets of the Gondorian soldiers glinting under the sun. It was a sight that was becoming more and more grievous for both of Elrond's sons – they never would get used to seeing violent battle in the White City of Gondor.

Elrohir's heart was heavy as he once more gripped his horse's reigns. "_Alae_, _amarth_ _faeg_," he whispered softly.

The fury in Elladan's heart did not soften his voice as it did that of his brother. He gripped the saddle he sat upon, steeling himself for the battle lying ahead, and shouted, "_Noro_!"

~.~.~

"Haythalm! They flee! _Haythalm_!" Aragorn's voice became frantic. He feared for a moment that the commander wouldn't hear him; the Man was surrounded by Easterlings on the other side of the courtyard. Though struggling with his own enemies, the King fought to move closer to Haythalm and the new threat that had arisen. A group of Elves was resolutely making their way towards the path leading higher into the city, taking advantage of the fact that none of the Gondorian soldiers had thus far noticed them.

"Haythalm; the Elves!" Aragorn shouted again, locking blades with an Easterling. "_Hayth_–" He stumbled, therefore effectively cutting off his cry. Heart pounding, Aragorn thrust his sword up into the Easterling's outstretched arm and severed it before killing him.

"My lord!"

When the King looked back towards Haythalm when he called, he saw that he had the commander's attention. "They flee!" Aragorn repeated desperately, pointing at the Elves. "Stop them! They must not go far!"

Giving a sharp nod, Haythalm barreled through his foes and yelled at the soldiers closest to him. It was not long before a solid Gondorian wall blocked the Elves' path.

Feeling his fear lessen somewhat, Aragorn turned and deflected a scimitar that flew towards his head. He felt as if this battle had been raging on for ages; his lungs were burning and his arms were beginning to smart with familiar tingles signifying that numbness was close at hand. This worried him, for even though his Men were fighting valiantly against Darcyn's army and seemed to be gaining the upper hand, the King did not want his strength to fail before the fight ended.

And something else tugged at the corner of his mind; something that had distracted him more than once, and almost fatally at that. His eyes darted continuously around the courtyard, scanning the combatants that surrounded him for a certain form. Despite knowing that it was selfish – and witless – Aragorn continued to hope that he would find him. That by some chance, in the midst of the battle, they would be brought before each other.

He did not know who would come through the encounter with their life. But he knew that even if it were not to be him, he would unleash upon his enemy the wrath that had been building in his heart since he had read the blood-stained letter. And such a wrath, even from an Adan against one of the Firstborn, would be so great that the immortal being would never forget it.

~.~.~

If it had not been for the way the stone of the wall was crystallized into odd, protruding shapes, Legolas would never have reached the top. He found himself thanking the Men of Gondor for their crafting techniques more than once as he climbed.

As soon as the flickering torch was in reach, Legolas planted his feet on the two widest slabs of rock he could find and studied the bracket holding it. He had been prepared to have to pry the torch from the iron handle, but he felt a surge of joy when he saw that it was not secured. Turning his head over his shoulder, the Elf let the spoon fall from his mouth to the floor, and then carefully moved the spear until he could grasp it in one hand. With the other he held onto the wall.

And then he waited.

He could not quite say how much time passed. Enough so that his legs were beginning to go slightly numb, his fingers began to ache, and the anguished expression he had last seen on Aragorn's face ran through his mind unceasingly. Staring at the wall in front of his nose, Legolas clenched his jaw and shook his head against the image.

Finally the guard came. As the door was pushed open, Legolas swiftly grabbed the torch from the bracket and held it over his head, watching the Haradrim walk into the room and stop almost instantly. When the man uttered his first confused expletive Legolas threw the torch onto the oil-drenched log directly underneath him, setting it instantly ablaze. The flames began to leap from each log to the next. The stunned Haradrim whirled around in surprise, and the last thing he saw in that life was the tip of a spear.

Landing silently on his feet, Legolas left the weapon in the Easterling's face and caught the body as it fell. He kept his eyes resolutely from looking at the damage and made quick work of exchanging he and the Haradrim's tunic and leggings. Throwing the black cloak over his shoulder and pulling on the leather boots, Legolas wrapped the dark headdress around his face, leaving only a small slit for his eyes as he had seen it worn. He then dragged the dead man to the back corner of the room and rolled him under the table, which was already on fire. _Everything_ was on fire. Looking around at his handiwork, Legolas counted to ten before stumbling from the room.

"Help!" he called, gathering flem in his throat to make his voice sound more gruff and alike to the Haradrim. It didn't take much effort, for the smoke had made its way into his lungs already and thickened his voice. "Help!" he repeated, staggering down the narrow stone hallway and leaning heavily against the wall. "Fire; help! The prisoner! Fire!"

A band of Easterlings rounded the corner ahead of him. As soon as they saw him they sprinted forward, and despite his disguise Legolas found himself holding his breath. One of the men grabbed his shoulders and shook him, speaking quickly and angrily in their native language. Unable to understand, Legolas merely nodded frantically and pointed back at the room. Smoke was pouring from the doorway. As the Haradrim all stared at it in astonishment, Legolas pushed against the arms of the one holding onto him and began to cough violently, grasping his throat to signal a need for air. Annoyed, the Easterling said something else he did not understand and nodded, shoving him down the corridor and away from the room.

Holding his breath, Legolas ran as clumsily as he could down the hall and followed the smell of fresh air through several twists and turns. To his relief – and surprise – he met only several more Haradrim along the way, whom he pointed back to his previous prison room as he coughed compellingly. They gave him strange looks before they smelled the smoke on his clothes and all began to shout in alarm, running past him and back the way he had come.

As he was running down yet another corridor, he saw a shaft of light coming from one of the walls and almost cried out in relief. The sun! Stopping next to the window, Legolas peered out and saw a strip of rocky grass directly below him, leading into dense trees. And suddenly, with a jolt, he realized that he had no idea where he was.

"Calm down, Legolas," he growled to himself, planting his hands on the window sill and taking a deep breath. "Think. You are in a beacon tower, and it is either in front of or behind a forest. It must be Amon Dîn. The Grey Wood." Opening his eyes, Legolas felt a smile pull at his lips as relief coursed through him. "You must go south."

Without further talk, Legolas hoisted himself onto the window sill and put his legs through first. He dropped to the forest floor silently, his eyes darting around him in every direction; he almost half expected a horde of more Haradrim to come running around the side of the beacon tower. But it was oddly hushed in the glade.

After counting to ten, Legolas took off in a run. He ran as quickly as his tired legs allowed him. His ears remained attuned to the tall stone building he ran from, and he glanced continually over his shoulder, looking for any signs of followers. There remained to be nothing. Legolas wondered at how fortunate he was; how simply he had escaped. But as one who had been forced to avoid many different captors in the past, he didn't let this wonder keep him or slow his pace. He simply ran.

He had not gone more than a quarter of an hour when he stumbled upon something he never would have expected to see in the forest. In fact, he came upon it so suddenly that it startled him. At first he did not see what it was; it was merely a movement out of the corner of his eye, therefore to him it was a threat. Sliding to an abrupt halt, he threw himself behind some bushes and onto his stomach, peering through the leaves.

He laughed at himself when he realized what 'the threat' was.

A horse. A Gondorian horse for that matter; the silver head-wear on its snout gave it away. It was across the path from him, sniffing at some sparse grass and stamping leisurely in the brush. Standing, Legolas whistled softly and the animal's ears perked up at the sound, turning towards him. Whistling again, the Elf began walking towards it and watched as the horse rose its head and caught sight of him. To his relief the animal trotted towards him almost happily – it seemed pleased to see a human life form, no matter his dress. Grinning, Legolas took ahold of the horse's reigns and swung himself lithely into the saddle. One word from the Elf's lips had the horse bounding down the forest path.

~.~.~

"Elessar!"

Aragorn froze. He had just straightened, wiping a sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow in a brief moment of respite allowed him by the space between he and his adversaries, when he heard the shout of his name. Clutching the hilt of his sword, the King slowly turned to face the Elf who stood no more than a yard away from him, his stance full of arrogant complacency. Darcyn lazily swung his longsword back and forth, a smile spreading across his lips. "_Mae_ _govannen_."

"Where is he?" Aragorn snarled.

Raising an eyebrow, Darcyn glanced at the people fighting around them. "Why, you get straight to the point, don't you, pretty king?"

Aragorn took a threatening step forward. The world had narrowed in – the men and Elves in the courtyard became blurred shapes, distant and quiet. He only saw the dark Elf that gazed at him amusedly. "_Where_ – _is_ – _he_?"

Darcyn chuckled. "Well, it is quite apparent that he is not in the crate." Pausing, the Elf nodded at the broken wagon that lay near the gate in pieces. "You made quick work of confirming that."

Aragorn's eyes smoldered.

"Now let's see." Pursing his lips, Darcyn tapped a blood stained finger against them and pretended to muse deeply. "He could be far, or he could be close. He could be underground, or above it. He could be alive..." Meeting Aragorn's eyes, the Elf smiled again, his own gaze wicked. "Or he could be dead."

Clenching his sword so tightly that his knuckles ached, Aragorn said nothing.

"The poison is always worse at the end." Darcyn tipped his head towards the King; almost as if he were bowing to him. "I'm afraid not even _I_ will see the Prince again while he still lives. It's a price I pay for coming to visit you in your lovely city."

"You are all going to die," Aragorn said fiercely. "You willingly gave me your life by stepping foot inside the gate. You have no chance of escape. No chance of survival."

Though he would never say anything of it out loud, the Man marveled at the unfaltering confidence that shone in Darcyn's eyes. "And you will kill me?"

Lifting his sword, Aragorn held it against his chest and said quietly, "Yes. But not yet. Before I do, you will tell me where Legolas is."

"No, _Estel_." Spitting the name like a curse, Darcyn raised his own weapon and stalked towards the King. His posture had changed; instead of an arrogant victor, the Elf was now a deadly force waiting to unleash an attack. "I don't think I will."

~.~.~

He already knew what to expect when he rode into the city. His keen eyes had saw the battle from far off; the gates, gaping open, showed chaos in Minas Tirith. The lack of a weapon, the ache in his stomach, the weariness of his mind – none of these things had slowed him. He pressed his feet all the more urgently into the sides of his steed, urging him on faster.

As the horse's hooves pounded the stone path before the gates, Legolas clenched his jaw and raked the fighting forms with his eyes, seeking out a familiar face. When he saw none, the Elf instead searched the ground for a weapon. A scimitar caught his eye, and as soon as he was close enough, Legolas leapt from the saddle and sprinted into the city.

Scooping up the abandoned scimitar, the Elf continued to run until he collided with the first wave of Haradrim. Swinging the blade in wide arcs, Legolas felled man after man, his eyes repeatedly darting around the yard even as he worked to rid Minas Tirith's first level of foes. The prince fought with the seasoned skill of a warrior, but all too soon his fire began to dim. The poison was clawing at him. It twisted his stomach in violent knots; his legs started to weaken as he had to fight harder and harder to draw in full breaths around the pain. But still he fought.

And finally, as he pushed farther and farther into the crowd, he saw him.

The Man was across the courtyard, facing him; Legolas of course saw the blood and sweat on his friend's face, but that was not what made his heart quicken with fear. It was the hatred. Aragorn's expression was one of pure, unadulterated _hatred_. Whoever the King was furiously fighting, the Man loathed. And that could only mean one thing – could only signify one person.

Darcyn.

_Valar_.

"Elladan! Elrohir! _Elladan_!" Legolas could not quite say why he found himself screaming for the twins. He couldn't even see them; they were somewhere locked in their own combat. So far away that they didn't hear his cries. But Legolas yelled for them nonetheless, his heart in his throat as every thought of his own pain and his own weakness vanished from his mind. He saw only Aragorn – tiring quickly under the merciless blows from Darcyn's longsword.

Legolas didn't become aware that he was whispering breathlessly as he ran until another Easterling leapt in front of him, blocking his path with a long wooden spear and therefore abruptly halting his words. But the Elf didn't even blink. His scimitar sliced through the wood before doing the same through the man's flesh, once more clearing the way between Aragorn and himself. He ran as fast as his quickly failing legs would allow him; cursing the poison and Darcyn and his own body as he did.

When he saw Aragorn's left leg twist out from under him, Legolas shouted his friend's name. And when he watched Darcyn lock their blades and rip Andúril from the King's hands, he found that he couldn't breathe. But he ran – he ran faster than he'd ever run before in his life. He didn't notice that the angry stream of breathless words falling from his lips wasn't directed at Darcyn, but at Aragorn. _'Don't you dare; you stand tall, get your sword; don't you dare let him win, don't you dare wait for the blow, don't you dare give up before I can reach you. Don't you dare.'_

~.~.~

Darcyn did not strike right away. He waited for a moment; allowing his prey to be consumed with terror. As he stood in front of Aragorn and gazed into the Man's grey eyes, he searched for any sign that his hesitation was weakening the King, frightening him, disheartening him in some way.

What he saw was the opposite.

In fact, Aragorn only stared back at him for several moments. And the strength and courage that shone in the Man's gaze for those several moments made Darcyn grind his teeth, his grip on his sword-hilt tightening. But before he could raise it, the Elf watched in confusion as Aragorn's eyes shifted, locking on something only he could see and filling with an emotion that Darcyn never would have expected.

_Love_.

It was the final straw. That this Man – this evil, lying, murderous Man – had the audacity to think of something that he had been blessed with; something that made his heart soften and fill with hope and love while he stood awaiting his death; made Darcyn's searing contempt for him overflow. The Elf resented Elessar more than he ever had in that moment; resented that the Man still had those people who gave his life meaning even in the face of his end. Who, even when not with him, made him unafraid. He resented that the King of Men still had those he loved – when it had been the King of Men who had taken the life of his beloved fifty years ago, on a veranda in The House of Elrond.

White hot rage burned in Darcyn's heart, and the fingers around his sword-hilt clenched violently. He was not sure if the dark scream that echoed in his head had been uttered aloud as he grabbed Aragorn's shoulder and yanked the unprepared Man forward, onto his waiting blade. And as he felt the sword run through flesh and broken chain-mail; heard the choked gasp of pain; Darcyn rested his cheek against the King of Gondor's head and whispered, "Legolas is dead."

When the Elf stepped back and released his grip on the Man, pulling his blade free of flesh, Aragorn's hands went instantly to the hole in his stomach as he fell to his knees. Blood trickled from between his fingers. Darcyn's chin rose triumphantly, but his brow furrowed when Aragorn looked not at him, but at something once more _behind_ him.

"You coward," the Elf hissed, taking a threatening step towards the King. "_Look_ at me."

Aragorn's eyes didn't move. Irritated, Darcyn frowned and turned, seeking out the object of the Man's focus. And for the first time since he had begun this wicked plot, the Elf was completely taken off guard by what he saw.

~.~.~

**TBC.**

**_Literal_****_Elvish_****_Translations_****: **

_"Alae, amarth faeg." — 'Behold, evil fate.'_

_"Noro!" — 'Run!'_


	11. Chapter 11

~.~.~

**Chapter** **Eleven**

_"I would rather share one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone."_

_- Arwen Undomiel _

~.~.~

Time had stopped.

Legolas' _heart_ had stopped.

The battle raged on, and the soldiers and the Haradrim and the Elves continued to fight – but the sounds of it; the forms and weapons and blood vanished instantly before Legolas' eyes. His vision was filled with the sight of the kneeling Man. The kneeling King.

His kneeling friend.

"_How_?!"

To Legolas, Darcyn's furious shout was faint, but he heard it nonetheless. His eyes flitted briefly to the other Elf, who clutched his longsword and stared at him wildly. But the Elf-prince couldn't move. Part of his mind was angrily screaming at him to attack, to cut Darcyn's sword arm from the Elf's body and drive him away from Aragorn. But the larger part of him – his whole heart – was blinded by the King, by the blood steadily dripping through his hands and the color – the life – leaving his face. And when Aragorn looked up and met his eyes again, the love that had been there before remained. Not once had the Man looked away from his eyes while he waited for the inevitable blow from Darcyn. He still stared at him, even now, and his weakening gaze rooted Legolas to the spot.

It was unpredictable, what Darcyn might have done next, had Haythalm not appeared suddenly from the mass of fighting Elves and men. The commander barreled straight into Darcyn with a shout of rage, shoving the Elf several feet away and not giving him a moment's respite before he was upon him. The Man's blade wielded blow after blow, and Darcyn was hard pressed to parry them as Haythalm drove him into the throng of fighting forms.

Legolas' gaze was fixed on them for a mere second, but when his heart crawled farther up into his throat and he looked back to Aragorn, he started violently. The King had bent forward and now rested against the ground, his hands buried underneath him and his head lying on the stones. He was still.

"_Aragorn_!"

Legolas' legs again began to move. He ran desperately and as he did his eyes filled with tears, terrified that right then, right here on the stones of the first level of Minas Tirith, he had lost him.

_Ilúvatar cannot be as cruel as this._

"Estel." The terrified, uncertain plea fell from cold lips when the Elf reached the unmoving King. Legolas didn't wait for a reply as he himself fell to his knees, dropping the scimitar to the ground and reaching out with both of his hands. His heart leaped when, blessedly, Aragorn's prostrate form shifted and with a moan the Man moved his arms, trying to raise himself. "Valar, easy, Estel," Legolas breathed as he grasped the King's shoulders, carefully helping him to rise to his knees and holding him upright.

Aragorn's face was as pale as the stones of the buildings around them; his eyes bright with pain. But they softened when he locked gazes with his friend and smiled, bringing up trembling hands to grasp Legolas' wrists. "You're alive."

"I'm alive." Legolas nodded frantically, his hands clenching in the shoulders of the Man's tunic. "I'm alive, Estel; I'm all right."

Aragorn smiled again, but it was almost instantly replaced with a grimace as he reached to cover his wound once more. Looking down at his blood-covered hands for the first time since Darcyn had stabbed him; allowing himself to fully accept how serious this injury was; Aragorn closed his eyes in dismay and tried to draw in a deep breath. He was horrified when he found that he was already too weak to do even that.

A tender hand joined both of his, sliding over them and holding them tightly. He looked up into Legolas' terrified eyes and felt his heart tighten at the realization that his friend was here; that his friend was going to watch him die.

"Legolas," Aragorn said desperately, "we have the cure. It's with Arwen, you must get–"

"I will, Estel, I will," Legolas murmured soothingly.

"Legolas, I need you to promise me something."

Legolas' eyes hardened. "Don't you dare, Aragorn. Anything you want me to promise you, you're going to be around to make sure I keep it. Do you understand?" Shaking his head before Aragorn could argue, Legolas used his grip on the Man's hands to try to pull them away from the wound. "Let me see."

But despite the numbness slowly spreading over his limbs, Aragorn fought him. "Legolas, no," the King whispered. "Don't torture yourself."

"You are going to live. Let me–"

"Enough!" Aragorn's tremulous shout instantly stilled the Elf's movements. Coughing, the Man struggled to focus on him, his eyes full of agony and his breathing labored. "Please, Legolas," he rasped. "There is nothing you can do."

Legolas flinched. The anger in his voice was smothered by the anguish accompanying it. "Of course there's nothing I can do if you will not let me _try_!"

"You cannot stop death, _mellon_ _nin_," Aragorn whispered, his hands clenching involuntarily against his wound as the pain increased tenfold. "Even _you_ aren't that strong."

"_Aragorn_–"

The expression on Aragorn's face changed before the Elf could continue. Gasping in his next breath, the Man bent inward and clenched his eyes shut. Legolas gently drew his friend as far onto his lap as he could, wrapping the King in his arms and holding him tightly. "Rest a moment; but I am carrying you to the healers," he said, hoping his voice sounded much more determined than he felt.

Aragorn was quiet for a moment, his chest rising greatly as he struggled for deep breaths. But finally he shook his head. "I am sorry," he breathed. "I am sorry you must be here. I'm sorry you must see... I'm sorry."

"Aragorn. Enough. Just rest a moment."

What frightened the Elf the most was that there was no argument. Aragorn lay quietly in his hold, his hands now lax against his bleeding wound and pain etched in his brow. The Elf's heart quickened and he tightened his hold around the King, beginning to shift his legs to stand. "I _will_ save you," he said fiercely – but he said it more to himself than he did to the Man he held. "I am sorry if I hurt you, my friend, but I must get you to the healers."

"Please," Aragorn said weakly. The smallness of his voice made Legolas instantly still his movements. "Let me rest. You've saved me enough, Legolas."

"Aragorn–"

"But you can't this time." His voice gentle with sympathy, Aragorn squeezed the Elf's hand and silently pleaded for his friend to understand. "Not this time."

When he felt hot tears fill his eyes, Legolas knew that as soon as the first one fell, they were not going to stop. His heart ached with pain, and no matter how hard he tried to listen to his friend and accept his words, he simply couldn't. He wouldn't. This would _not_ happen. But when Aragorn turned his hand in his grasp and clung to his fingers weakly, the adamant protests; the angry shouts and demands and pleas that had been waiting on his lips died instantly. How on Arda could be deny this Man _anything_?

"Legolas, please. Will you promise me something?"

The pain lodged in his throat rendered Legolas incapable of answering. His desperate hold around the Man tightened; his hand pressed more firmly against the fatal wound in Aragorn's stomach.

"_Mellon_ _nin_." Aragorn leaned his head against the Elf's chest, his voice dwindling until Legolas had to strain to hear it. "Heal, Legolas. Heal. Promise me."

"I promise," Legolas whispered. He was willing to say anything – even things he didn't believe – anything to ease his beloved friend's heart. "I promise, Estel. _Hannon le. Hannon le. Hannon le._"

He didn't know why exactly he was uttering those words. But Legolas found that he couldn't stop, and they poured unceasingly from his lips until he realized that there was no answer. The pain that wrapped around his heart stole his breath, and he clutched the still form of his friend to his chest, rocking back and forth, the stones digging into his knees. He wasn't aware that Gondorian soldiers had formed a wall around them, fighting furiously against any of the enemy who dared come too close to their fallen King.

When Haythalm broke through the circle and dropped to his knees at Legolas' side, the commander was breathless. "The healers," he said, his voice gravely with his own emotion. "The healers will save him. Legolas, let me take him, please. Let me save him. Legolas!" Haythalm's voice rose angrily when the Elf made no move to acknowledge his words. The shout seemed to draw Legolas from his stupor; he looked up and met the Man's eyes. At the lost look on the Elf's face, Haythalm's voice softened. "I know you want to save him. Let me take him to the healers. Please, you are not strong enough yourself."

When Haythalm paused and waited for an answer, Legolas swallowed harshly, and his voice came out faint. "Save him."

Nodding, Haythalm put a hand on Legolas' shoulder and reached with the other for his King. As he gently took Aragorn's limp form into his own arms, the commander heard Legolas whisper, "He must live, else I... Save him. _Saes_."

"Come with us," Haythalm implored over his shoulder. "Legolas, you need the cure; come with us. Aragorn would want you near."

There was no answer.

Halting, Haythalm turned back to see Legolas kneeling as he had been left. The Elf's hands, covered with the King's blood, rested palm-up in his lap, and his face was stained with tears. For the first time Haythalm noticed that Legolas wore clothes in the likes of the Haradrim; a soot covered red tunic and black cloak. But the Man did not wait to question such an odd thing, he merely said again, "Legolas, I must go. Will you come?"

"Go." Legolas' voice was cold and detached. Confused, Haythalm hesitated a moment longer and watched the Elf stand slowly to his feet, once more grasping the scimitar.

"Legolas?"

He was ignored. As he watched Legolas; his shoulders and back rigid; walk away from him, towards the group of soldiers locked in combat with Darcyn's men, Haythalm wondered for a moment at the change he saw in the Elf-prince. But when his eyes were drawn again to the bloody Man in his arms, the commander drew in a sharp breath and turned away, beginning his frantic trek to the sixth level of the city. "Hold on, Aragorn," he repeated over and over as he went. "Hold on. Hold on. _My_ _King_."

Legolas stopped just behind the make-shift wall of Men, watching as they fought. The sight of the Elf drew the attention of even more Gondorian soldiers. They had all witnessed the fall of their King. Legolas turned his head and met the eyes of a young Man, who stared back, his face full of sorrow. Raising his scimitar, Legolas clenched his jaw and shouted hoarsely, "To me!"

He was an Elf. Legolas was painfully aware of the fact that Men did not answer to Elves – that human warriors did not take orders from Elven warriors. Therefore, despite the boldness of his call, he did not much expect any of the Gondorian Men to answer to him. He simply wanted to try; he wanted to lead them against the enemy who dare do such a thing to his friend. He wanted the righteous fury of the King's Men to be behind his own. But he did not expect such a thing.

It came.

The young soldier he gazed at gave a grim nod and called out to his platoon. They all made their way to the Elf, forming an even longer line of silver armor and helms. Their leader came to stand beside Legolas and leaned over to him, his voice tired but resolute as he said, "We are winning. A long fight, but we have overcome. He is our King. We fight with you."

The simple words made tears rise once more to Legolas' eyes. He clasped the soldier's forearm, nodding to him gratefully and saying, "_Hannon_ _le_."

The young Man smiled. "Here." Holding out a long silver blade, he nodded to the crude scimitar Legolas held. "Use this. Leave wicked enemy blades for the defeated."

Legolas dropped the scimitar and grasped the hilt of the sword. As the soldier straightened and raised his own weapon, Legolas drew in a deep breath and glanced around at the platoon of soldiers that surrounded him, all waiting expectantly for an order. His heart tightened with gratitude and pride at the sight of the loyalty on their faces. "We fight for Elessar," he called, hoping that they all could hear him. "You have already done well – your King would be proud to see your bravery and your attainment. However victory is not ours yet, but I know that it shall be. This is your beloved city, and he is your beloved lord. Let us finish the enemy and drive them back to the darkness from whence they came!"

Beside him, the soldier cried, "For Gondor!"

And all around him the army took up the cry. Elessar's name was on many of their lips as Legolas surged forward, breaking through the wall of Men and leaping into the midst of the startled enemy. Swinging the sword with all of the strength left in his limbs, Legolas heard the Gondorians join him with renewed vigor as he felled Easterling after Easterling, and when he came upon the first Elf follower of Darcyn, the change did not register in Legolas' mind. His blade was just as mighty and unyielding as he cut the Firstborn down. The harder he fought, the louder and more adamantly the soldiers did as well, and Legolas felt great sobs building in his chest, fueled by the anger he felt at each enemy face he met in combat.

And suddenly Elladan was at his side. The Peredhil met Legolas' eyes briefly, and the Elf-prince immediately knew that the son of Elrond had not seen Aragorn fall, for his eyes were too bright and too pleased by the new fire in the Gondorian soldiers. There was no trace of sorrow whatsoever. And when Elladan nodded to him and smiled heartily before delving into the fight, something inside of Legolas broke. He wept freely as he fought.

~.~.~

**TBC.**

_**Author's Note: **Thank you all for your wonderful reviews. Your support means much more than I could say. (Also many thanks to **Fan**, **MH** **galor**, and **LI7** (LI7: Thank you for correcting my wording that I'd managed to miss (whoops), and I like that you're wondering things outside of the box; I think that's important for all readers of anything to do!) who I can't reply to personally; your reviews are just as important to me! I very much love welcoming new readers who tell me they're enjoying it! It warms my heart! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are having a wonderful weekend! Thank you again. :-)_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thank you, so much, to all my readers. You mean so much to me._

~.~.~

**Chapter Twelve**

_"Dawn is ever the hope of men."_

_- Aragorn son of Arathon_

~.~.~

The sight of the blood covering his blade did not settle well in his heart. Standing in the narrow cobble-stone street, he gazed down at the sword he held, turning it around in his hand. It had been many years since he had wielded it; long ago, when it was the age in which he had his turn to fight against the Dark Lord. Time had changed much in Middle-earth since then. Sauron was defeated, and the old line of Kings had been restored. The Elves were beginning to leave the shores; to take to the Sea – _home_.

But even then, he was glad that he had lingered to see it done. That he had not travelled to Valinor as soon as he had planned. If he had not waited to see the crown upon the Man's head – Elessar seated in the seat of the High Kings – then he would not have been here when a new threat was unleashed upon Gondor.

His heart had burned with a white light he had not felt since long ago as he engaged in battle upon the streets of Minas Tirith. He noticed, however, that he did not fight as angrily; as unthinkingly as the soldiers of Gondor did. When he met the first Elf in combat, his heart began to break. They were his kin. They were the beloved children of Ilúvatar. Meant to bring light and beauty and wisdom to all of Arda. And yet they killed heedlessly, unleashing cruel slaughter on innocent people for the revenge of one immortal. But despite this, his heart still twisted as he cut down one after the other, spilling their blood on white stones.

He slowly came back to awareness from his sorrowful thoughts, shaking his head to clear it. He had stepped away into the empty street only to regain his composure, so that he might be a beacon of strength to the shattered Men of Gondor's army as they dealt with the aftermath of battle. It had ended but moments ago. There was little left of Darcyn's followers; none of the Elves had survived. As for Darcyn himself, he was now in chains in the Citadel, waiting for the punishment that all knew would soon be dealt. He himself had not seen Darcyn being led away, but he had heard the line of victorious shouts following his capture.

Looking once more at his sword, he lifted it and pulled a cloth from his belt. He had just begun to run it along the soiled blade when quick footsteps pounded against the ground behind him. Turning, he watched with furrowed brow as a helmeted soldier ran towards him frantically.

"My lord!"

He raised his hands and stepped forward to meet the Gondorian. "Peace, soldier."

"My lord," the Man repeated breathlessly, almost skidding to a halt in front of him. His grey eyes were wide and blazing with panic. "My lord, the King has fallen."

The sword clattered noisily against the stones as it slipped from Elrond's lax fingers.

~.~.~

"Faramir."

Not bothering to turn, the Steward stared at the sword that lay at his feet. The sun peeked through the clouds that had gathered overhead, but only for a moment, and the light glinted weakly against the silver of the blade not covered with blood before disappearing, leaving the sword in a grey shadow. It was such a dismal sight, the Man mused sorrowfully. A blood-covered sword lying on the stone, abandoned by its dying master.

But this was no ordinary blade. This was Andúril – the sword of the King. By all means, he should have long ago reached down to pick it up and clean it and rush it back to its master's side. However, he couldn't. His feet were rooted to the spot. But he couldn't take his eyes off of the sword.

For what else was there for him to gaze upon? The bodies? The piles of dead Haradrim and Elves and Gondorian Men? The pools of blood; the severed limbs? How could anyone look out over such death willingly?

Therefore he stared at the sword.

"Faramir, my lord." A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Drawing himself up, Faramir winced at the protest his battle-weary body gave and turned to the silently demanding presence at his side. Beregond smiled at him sadly. "You are dead on your feet."

"We are all weary, Beregond."

"Yes." Sighing, the captain looked to his right, and Faramir followed his eyes. The Steward almost started in surprise when he saw the group of Gondorian soldiers that all stood assembled, their weapons still held against their chests and their forms alert. All stared at him. Faramir could have scoffed at himself for being so ignorant – how long had he been standing there, staring at the inanimate sword on the ground?

"I know you need time." Beregond spoke softly, sympathy in his voice. "And I would let you have it. But the Men are awaiting their dismissal."

Suddenly, Faramir's throat was tight. His entire life he had been mocked and ridiculed because of his tender heart; by the force of the emotions he always felt when so easily moved to compassion. That came forward now, and he gazed at the loyal soldiers before him with pride spreading through his veins. _The Men are awaiting their dismissal_. Still they stood at the ready, even though he could see that they were all exhausted; not only their bodies, but their souls as well. Watching their fellow Men be slaughtered for one man's twisted revenge was toiling.

Clearing his throat, Faramir walked towards them and found Joln among the crowd. The chief of Guard stood in front, his sword clasped solemnly against his chest. There was blood covering his left eye, but he nodded to the Steward. Faramir returned it and spoke, raising his voice so that they could all hear him. "Soldiers of Gondor. I have never fought with better Men. You have shown the true heart of this country – and that is loyalty, and courage, and goodness, and beauty. I would entrust my life to no one else. Our King..." Pausing when he felt his voice begin to falter, Faramir lowered his eyes to the ground and took a deep breath. After a moment of somber silence, he again looked up at the soldiers. "Our King was wounded. Many of you saw him fall. I am overjoyed to tell you that he still lives, because I know that it was feared that he did not. But I will not cushion your ears with false hope. King Elessar's wounds are grave. Even now he is fighting the clutches of death. As brave defenders of this city, you deserve to be told the truth. But we will _not_–" Bringing up a clenched fist, Faramir met the eyes of a young soldier in the front line, saying furiously, "We will _not_ give up hope. We will not let the wicked intentions of our enemy make us cower in despair. He has surrendered with his tail between his legs, and we will let him think that he has escaped with his life. But he is not victorious because of this. Do not let him rule the hope in your hearts." Voice softening, Faramir rested his fist against his chest. "For your hope is your own. Do not give up on your city, or your King."

There was not a single soldier who didn't raise his sword silently above his head. Tears glittered in Joln's eyes as he lifted his blade, bowing his head to the Steward. Beregond rested his free hand on Faramir's shoulder. Holding his own emotion at bay, Faramir kept his hand pressed to his heart, and they all stood wrapped in the bittersweet silence that enfolded the courtyard.

The silence of victory, but the silence of loss.

~.~.~

_2 Days Later._

A silent figure; clothed in a forest green cloak that seemed to shroud him in the dawn's mist; passed down the hushed street. There was a peasant standing by his cart on one side of the road, packing his apples. On the other there was an old woman, picking up shards of broken pots outside of her door. But other than the soft tinklings the old clay glass gave, the street was silent. These two occupants of Minas Tirith did not say a word as they watched the lithe being move past them.

After a short walk, the form emerged from the tunnel leading to the High Courtyard. Here, not long earlier, Men had milled about, charged with the task of clearing the court of bodies – those of Gondorian soldiers, and those of Elves. The Men had finished that task. They were now in the first level of the city, doing the same, but the wreckage there was much worse. Far more blood had been shed before the gates.

The Citadel was now silent. The entire royal family – the Queen and her servants, the Lord Elrond and his sons – all of them now stayed in the Houses of the sixth level. The Houses of Healing. Waiting anxiously and wearily at the bedside of the King.

He had been there as well. But suddenly the stone walls had become suffocating, and when he stumbled outside, there was only more stone. And _more_ stone. He soon found that his feet were carrying him, bearing him away to a place he did not know.

But ah, it was here. The wall of the City. Where he could see out, out, out; into the trees and mountains. Here the breeze could flow, and it would have lifted his hair had it not been tucked away into his cloak. Here, he could breathe.

And here, he could finally see the sun rise.

The Elf's blue eyes sparkled with the flush of orange and pink that was the dawn as he quietly settled himself on the wall to watch. How long had it been since the Sun had performed such a magnificent sight for him? It seemed ages. Ever since that horrible moment – ever since that brutal blow to his heart – it had rained. Poured sorrow and fear upon the city of Men. Not that the Elf himself would have been much aware of it – he was tied by an unbreakable tether to a bed in the Houses of Healing.

'_You've saved me enough, Legolas. But you can't this time._

_Not this time.'_

How agonizingly true this had been. How helpless he had felt; standing there with blood caking his hands and poison weakening his legs and agony pillaging his heart. How powerless – how utterly, painfully defeated he was.

_'Heal, Legolas. Heal. Promise me.'_

And Legolas had. He had opened his lips and let Elrohir pour the liquid down his throat and he had known that by all accounts he should now live. But when the son of Elrond simply tossed the glass vial to shatter on the floor in his haste to return to table holding the King, Legolas had felt the sharp clatter it gave resonate throughout his whole heart. _Again, _it was shattered. He had known from the start that if Aragorn breathed his last he would not _live_.

Closing his eyes, Legolas felt the familiar pull back to that terrifying moment.

~.~.~

Somewhere in the corner to the left, Arwen was wailing. It wasn't a pitiless wail of a hysterical woman – it was a desperate and terrified sound. Elladan's voice mingled with hers, but the way that it shook with tears didn't help the cause of trying to calm the Elleth.

She had been with Adala in the throne room. There had been no word of the King or her father and brothers since the battle had begun. Two messengers had been sent at the beginning; young soldiers stopping in the Citadel to hastily tell their Queen that a breech had been made and Elessar was staying to fight. Arwen already knew that her husband would engage in battle, and she held her tongue and did not utter protest as Elrond kissed her forehead and left with the soldiers to the first level to fight. But she had been hopeful – hopeful because to even entertain the notion that any of her loved ones' many years of living by the sword would fail them was more than her heart could bear.

Adala had stayed at her Queen's side from the beginning. After Lord Elrond had left, the maid took Arwen's hands and urged the Elleth to sit with her and tell her stories of the beautiful realm her Queen hailed from. Of course, Arwen had known that the young woman was merely trying to distract her while they sat under heavy guard in the Citadel, but her heart had warmed nonetheless. She had grown very fond of her hand-maiden and was grateful for her attempts to ease her heart. And in fact it had worked. Arwen had let the love she felt for Imladris fill her mind as she spoke of its wonders and beauties, illustrating her home-life for the eager ears of the Gondorian maid sitting before her.

And then another breathless arrival of a messenger shattered the serenity they had managed to find in the hall. This time, the words the soldier had to bear were words that were hard to find hope in even for Arwen Undomiel.

_"My Queen, the King was wounded. Haythalm brings him to the Houses now; please, come." _

Not minutes after Arwen and her maid had arrived in the healing halls, Haythalm stumbled into the House bearing the body of the King.

Arwen's heart gave a giant convulsion inside of her as soon as she saw the Man. The pain was so intense, so very _real_ that it had buckled her knees, and Adala quickly tightened her hold on the Queen to hold her upright. The maid's heart was in her throat as she pulled Arwen close, holding her out of the way of the healers that ran forward and demanded Haythalm lay Aragorn on the table. Arwen fought her at first, but Adala held firm and whispered to her Queen that they needed to let the healers save him and not hinder their tasks. Eventually, Arwen stopped pulling against her hand and let Adala embrace her. Together they watched the people of Gondor tear the tunic from Aragorn's body and ball it up and press it against the hole under his ribs to staunch the blood steadily draining from it, as others grabbed bowls and water and towels. Arwen held tight to her maid and kept her eyes fixed on Aragorn's lifeless face as she silently willed him to live and struggled to breathe herself.

No one could say how much time had passed when Legolas and Elladan and Elrohir arrived. The Peredhil twins came first, their eyes wide and full of denial and even a small hope that what the soldiers had told them was wrong. But as soon as they saw Aragorn surrounded by the healers, that hope deflated from their eyes as quickly as darkness falls when clouds cover the sun. Elrohir remained rooted to the spot, his face ashen as he stared at the table, but Elladan saw their broken sister in the embrace of her maid and hurried to her, taking Arwen into his own arms.

Legolas came slowly. Hands stiff with blood and muscles aching from the terrible exertion of killing being after being, the Elf let his arms hang limply at his sides and drifted almost as if in a daze into the hall. The shadows cast by the sparsely placed windows flickered across his pale face; on his cheekbone there was a smear of blood, left by Aragorn's weakening fingers. His eyes were ringed red and full of water, tears not yet fallen, though others streaked his face like tiny rivers in the grime. His stolen clothes were covered in dust and dirt and blood. And as he came to a stop in the middle of the hall – and one of the healers surrounding the table shifted her location – the Elf watched Aragorn's hand slip from the table and hang there limply.

For some reason, that was when Legolas felt the cries again building in his chest, just as Arwen began to sob.

"Legolas."

Starting violently, the prince turned his eyes upon the Elf that stood beside him. Elrohir's eyes were full of tears as well; with the grief he was keeping at bay; but he did his best to smile as he held up something between his fingers. At first Legolas did not understand. He stared at the vial uncomprehendingly, and then glanced back at Elrohir, furrowing his brow. The Peredhil understood his confusion and simpy touched two fingers to the prince's chest.

And Legolas knew.

It was the cure. The drink that would save him. Odd, he mused to himself, that now the poison was just a trivial thing, pushed to the back of his mind. Legolas stared at the vial like it was the most treacherous thing he'd ever seen before in his life. How dare there be an antidote for his physical ailment, when the way his heart was withering was in curable.

"Legolas," Elrohir finally murmured. "I know what you're thinking. And in the words of Estel, I should beat it out of you. You are insane."

Legolas shook his head.

Eyes narrowing, Elrohir pulled the cork out of the vial and glared at the other Elf. "Stop being so weak." The harsh words shocked the prince, therefore doing what was intended; pulling him from his stupor. "You need to be alive when Estel wakes. Don't you dare do this to us. Drink it. _Now_."

There was no use in arguing. Elrohir was too alike to his beloved friend; they shared the trait of immovable stubbornness. And so Legolas simply nodded. Elrohir put a careful hand on the back of the Elf's head and brought the vial to Legolas' lips. The prince tilted his head back obediently. Just as the last drop of liquid disappeared, one of the healers suddenly gave an alarmed shout.

"He's not breathing!"

Elrohir's reaction was instantaneous. He let the vial drop to the ground, and it shattered as the Elf whirled on his heel and sprinted towards the table. Legolas was left standing in the midst of the broken glass, his heart laying alike in pieces on the ground, floored by the words. Healers rushed around the table on all sides, trying what they knew. They breathed into Aragorn's slack mouth and furiously pumped upon his chest.

Elladan's angry voice soon joined the sound of Arwen's sobs: "Breathe, Aragorn! Valar, you bullheaded Man, don't you dare! _Breathe_!"

And when Aragorn suddenly gasped in a lungful of air; convulsed off of the table and began to cough; Legolas finally breathed himself, collapsing to his knees.

~.~.~

He could almost feel his knees strike the stones, jerking him back from the memory. His eyes flew open. The wonder of the Sun in the Elf's gaze was there no longer; a shadow now pooled in their ageless depths. Drawing in a deep breath, Legolas pulled one knee up to his chest and laid his arm across it, resting his forehead against his sleeve. He counted his breaths until he finally felt his frantic heartbeat begin to slow.

_He was alive. Aragorn was alive._

And the Elf had vowed to stay at his bedside to ensure that it remained that way. He'd just needed to breathe. But even though he not been gone long; had only slipped out when everyone in the healing halls was still subdued and quiet with the dawn; Legolas already felt the tug on his heart to return. Not being by Aragorn's side, not feeling his solid hand between his own, unsettled him more than he would have thought. Up here, he couldn't carefully watch the King's chest rise and fall with life.

Taking one last look at the rising Sun, Legolas sighed and withdrew from the wall.

~.~.~

"What do you mean; _nothing_ _more_?" Arwen's weak grasp she had of control was wavering greatly. The only thing that kept her from lunging at the healer standing before her was the tender grip her father had on her wrist, but even that was becoming insignificant in the face of the desperation raging in her heart. "He is your _King_!"

"Arwen," Elrond murmured, but his daughter yanked her hand free of his grasp and glared at the healer.

"You are charged with keeping your King alive," she whispered furiously. "And you will do this. Do you understand me?"

"My lady," Ruhin said gently. Even with the icy hatred directed his way in the Queen's eyes, the Man remained calm and gentle, his own gaze full of compassion. "We have done everything we can. We cannot stop death if it is Ilúvatar's will."

His words felt as if he had slapped her. Arwen stood rooted to the spot, staring at him. Elrond took the opportunity to speak, meeting the healer's eyes over his daughter's head and saying softly, "This does not mean that he will die."

Ruhin glanced at him, smiling at him gratefully, and Elrond gave him an imperceptible nod. The Man then directed his words at Arwen, "No, it does not. I promise, my Queen, that we did all we could to ensure his life. He is our King, as you said. And I do not want to be the giver of false hope, but for whatever ease it might provide your heart: I believe that he will live."

"You believe," Arwen whispered.

"I do," came the soft reply.

Swallowing, Arwen closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. She regretted her earlier outburst, but she couldn't find the words to say thus – so she asked in a weary voice, "Where is Legolas?"

Elrond's brow furrowed, the prince's absence brought to his attention for the first time. Even Ruhin glanced around the hall in surprise. The Wood Elf's absence was indeed odd. "I'm not sure, Arwen. Perhaps he simply went for a walk; he may have needed fresh air."

The soft reply to her question was followed by a sound that Arwen Undomiel would never forget, to the end of her days on Arda. As she let the healer's kind confirmation calm her previous ire, she heard a movement; a rustle of cloth from the bed where Aragorn lay. Arwen's heart leapt and her breath caught, and she hardly dared hope as she turned slowly, her eyes coming to rest upon her beloved. And as she watched, his head turned towards her and his brows furrowed – such simple action that made the Evenstar's heart sing with joy.

"_Estel_." His name fell from her lips like a prayer as she lurched forwards and ran to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed, immediately grabbing his hand with both of hers and bringing it to her lips, her eyes already sparkling with tears as they searched his face. "_Estel_ _nin_, I hear you. I am here, _melethron_. I'm here."

When Aragorn's brows again drew together, as if he could hear her, Arwen's tears overflowed, a choked laugh bursting from her chest. She released his hand and instead cradled his face in between her palms, resting her forehead against his and gazing adoringly at his tense features. "I know you're there, my Estel," she whispered, stroking his hair, her hope-filled words falling from her lips to his. "Please return to me, _meleth_. I'm here."

Behind them, Elrond had taken a firm grip of the healer's shoulder. Ruhin winced at the strength behind it, his mouth fixed in a grimace as he patiently endured the Elf-lord's sudden apprehension, knowing that even if he voiced his minor discomfort he would be ignored. Elrond's wide eyes were fastened on the King and Queen and shining brightly. "Ruhin."

The healer grinned at the breathless quality of the High Elf Lord's voice. "Yes, Lord Elrond?"

"Have someone search for Legolas. Look first in the High Court; it's the closest to his beloved sun. And hurry. Send word that..." Pausing, Elrond swallowed and finally met the Man's eyes. The joy Ruhin saw there made the healer's smile widen. "Tell him that our King is returned."

~.~.~

There was something there.

At first, there had been nothing. And by all accounts the only way he knew there had been nothing was because now, there was _something_. A twinge. A small worm, kind of like a ray of light, but not quite one that shone. He _felt_ it.

He knew who he was. He knew what had happened. After several moments – or at least he _assumed_ they were moments; he couldn't really tell what time was doing under this blanket of darkness that he lay – he remembered. He remembered the dark Elf, smiling wickedly at him as he advanced. And then that horrible instant when Darcyn's face changed, twisted hideously to hatred and rage before he struck like a viper. He remembered the cold bite of the blade as it slid through his flesh...

And suddenly he became afraid. He had been tentatively lifting up the blanket of darkness, remembering detail after detail, but now the memory of the pain made him drop it and shy away. For a moment he hovered there, uncertain as to what he should do next.

Then, another face appeared. It became clearer and clearer until it blocked all traces of Darcyn whatsoever. And as soon as he recognized who it was, he gave a shout of joy and moved forward. It was his friend. The Prince of Greenwood. The Wood Elf whom he had known for as long as he could remember. Legolas stood behind Darcyn, and he focused on him until the dark Elf faded away. Joy and love burned in his heart as he continued towards the Elf-prince. But as he came closer, he slowed, and confusion dampened the joy. What was this terror on Legolas' face? The horror? Why did the Elf stare at him as if expecting him to suddenly whither?

And then he remembered that, as well. He knew why now he stared hard at the prince – because he had done it before. He had kept his eyes glued to Legolas' familiar face, letting the love he felt for the Elf strengthen him and give him courage while he waited for what he knew would be his death.

_Legolas had watched it all. _

_And Legolas had held him while he died. _

But he couldn't be dead. Shocked at himself for thinking such things, he momentarily looked away from the Wood Elf and around at the dark pavilion that surrounded him. Certainly this was not death. And the more he thought this, the truer he knew it to be. When he looked back towards where Legolas had been standing, prepared to comfort him and reassure him that this was not the end, the smile on his lips vanished. Legolas was gone.

Pain hit him like a wave.

It was an onslaught that took his breath away. Every fiber of his being cried out; he found himself reaching desperately for the blanket of dark, seeking to wrap it around himself once more and retreat back into the nothingness. He had just grasped the corner; had just begun to run; when suddenly he saw them. Their faces stopped him instantly in his tracks.

_Arwen, appearing to him as if she were a dream in the forest, her blue eyes filling with warmth from the first moment their gazes met. Many years later, her hair like silk between his fingers as she wrapped him in her arms and her scent, her eyes twinkling with love and her smile warmer than the sun._

_Elladan and Elrohir, sitting on his bed in Rivendell, black hair and ceremonial robes in states of disarray and impish smiles lighting their faces as they held up readied pillows of war. Books open on their laps as they avidly illustrated tales of Elven history, passionately including him in their ways and heritage despite their differences. Glancing at him over papers with warm eyes and affectionate smiles. _

_Elrond, settling down beside him in a flurry of robes and running a gentle hand over his weary head, offering him tea with the other. Holding his shoulders, his gaze full of love and truth as he reassured him that he was always home when in Imladris. Smiling proudly into his eyes as he placed Arwen's hand into his._

_And Legolas, as the beaming Wood Elf bounded across the bridge of his home, his open arms enveloping him in the safe embrace of friendship and shelter. Riding beside the laughing Elf-prince, his own bouts of mirth nearly knocking him from the saddle. Legolas standing next to him, eyes fiery with determination and bow in hand, an unyielding protector at his side._

He could see them. All of them. Their devotion and their loyalry and their love for him shone forth; tugging at his heart and filling him with a warmth he knew he was blessed to feel. Therefore the pain suddenly became less frightening – less intimidating of a thing to turn to. He knew that in order to reach those that he so loved, he must come through it. Already the darkness that had become a permanent companion was falling away; the seams of it unraveled, and the blanket slipped farther and farther from his sight.

When he first began to open his eyes, he had not known that he was doing it. Light suddenly flooded his vision and his lungs drew in a reflexive gasp. A sharp tug came at his stomach from the movement, but he ignored it, resolutely pushing onward.

All at once he could feel every one of the sensations that came with being conscience. There were fingers cradling his face, and he felt smooth skin against his forehead and the brush of silk upon his cheek. He also heard her – the beautiful voice speaking to him, her tone like that of bells and sunlight and all of the beauty he had ever seen in his long life. She was whispering against his lips; pleading for him to return to her. "_Estel. My Estel. I am here, meleth. I am here. Estel_."

Finally, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was her – the most perfect sight ever to grace his weary eyes. When her face immediately lit up and her mouth parted in a joyous cry, he smiled, raising a stiff hand to cup her cheek. Running his thumb along her flawless skin, Aragorn gazed into her eyes and murmured, "_Bereth_ _nîn_."

~.~.~

**TBC**.

_**Literal Elvish Translations:**_

_"Bereth nîn." — 'My Queen.'_


End file.
